The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, perhaps," she said. "She has gone home, poor lady."
"But no," said Luigi, puzzled.
Then the crowd separated the two Italians. Luigi went back to his hotel, and on next day to Italy.
A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving had saved Denise from exposure.
She drove home so frightened that she looked really ill; went to her room, clinging to Cyril's arm. The husband she had once treated so lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and all misfortune. To lose him—lose her home, her position—
Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into her big chair, crouched there shivering.
Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging satin gown, brought a warm, rose-pink wrapper. Cyril ran for brandy.
"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone."
Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard.
"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid."