"You cannot mean it—you will not dare to take me to a vile jail," she exclaimed, in tones of mingled fear and anger.
"Jails were made for thieves, swindlers, and abductors," was the laconic response.
The woman sprang to her feet again, and shot a withering glance at him.
"I go to a common prison? never!" she said, fiercely, and with all the haughtiness of which she was capable.
"The fact of your having figured as a leader in high life, madame, does not exempt you from the penalty of the law, since you have already declared yourself guilty of the crimes I have named," coolly rejoined the detective.
"Oh, I cannot—I cannot," moaned the wretched woman, wringing her hands in abject distress. Then her glance fell upon Mona, who had quietly seated herself a little in the background, after the detective had relieved her of the clothing which she had brought into the room.
"You will not let them send me to prison—you will not let them bring me to trial and sentence me to such degradation," she moaned, imploringly.
Mr. Rider regarded her with amazement and supreme contempt at this servile appeal, for so it seemed to him.
"How can you expect that Miss Richards will succor you after your heartless and wicked treatment of her?" he demanded more sharply than he had yet spoken to her.
"Because, Mr. Rider," Mona gently interposed, "she bears a name she knows I am anxious to save from all taint or reproach; because she was the wife, and I the only child, of Walter Richmond Montague Dinsmore."