While speaking the man had coolly unbuttoned his coat and exhibited a shining shield, at sight of which Grace uttered a cry of terror, and clung to her brother’s arm, trembling in every limb.
“Great heavens! There is some terrible mistake,” ejaculated Chester, asking, as the men came across the threshold: “With what do you charge Iris Tresilian?” to which the man replied in his usual cool, matter-of-fact tone:
“With the theft of two hundred dollars. Madam Marie Ward, of Forty-first Street, is her accuser.”
CHAPTER LIX.
“GOOD-BY.”
“Miss Tresilian accused of theft! There is—there must be some terrible mistake!” ejaculated Chester St. John, while Grace clung to his arm, pale and shivering, and Isabel, after the first shock of surprise was over, actually rejoiced in the new disgrace that had fallen on her rival, since it must serve to place Iris beyond the pale of Chester’s forgiveness.
“I shall send upstairs for Iris, that these men may see their mistake,” she said confidently, and Grace, taking courage from her firm and determined manner, now ventured to speak, begging Isabel to break the news to Iris gently, lest the shock should be too much for her. But the caution came just too late; for even while Grace was speaking, Iris was descending the stairs, her light footfall making no sound on the soft velvet pile of the carpet, and the sound of Grace’s low-toned voice coming distinctly to her ears.
“What is it?” she cried breathlessly, and one of the men whose business it was to arrest her stepped forward and answered:
“We have a painful duty to perform, young lady, and the quicker it is over the better for all parties. The name by which you have been known of late is Maggie Gordon, is it not? You are certainly the original of this portrait.”
The speaker here exhibited a penciled sketch of the beautiful working girl, executed by the sister of Madam Ward, an amateur artist of no mean ability. At sight of this drawing St. John could not repress a groan, while Grace bowed her head and wept, and Isabel turned a shade paler. Iris herself was outwardly calm, but her eyes had the wild, scared look of a hunted animal, and fixed themselves for one brief second on the face of Chester St. John, as if mutely appealing to him for aid.
The look went straight to his heart, and, leaving his place by the side of Isabel, he spoke to Iris in a tone that was tremulous with deep feeling: