Sutherland’s fears were right. When the poisoned arrows of slander and calumny are in the air, it is not long ere they reach their victim; and even as he spoke the cowardly work was complete.
That afternoon Madeline drove down to the Grosvenor Library, of which she was a member, to change some books. When she had made her choice of some new literature, and handed it to her footman to place in her carriage, she went upstairs to the ladies’ reading-room on the second floor.
The room was quite empty, and she strolled from table to table, turning over the new magazines, glancing at the journals. Presently she sat down, and began reading one of the theatrical papers, full of current gossip; for the old interest in histrionic affairs still clung to her, though she had abandoned all thoughts of returning to the stage.
Placing the theatrical paper aside after a few minutes, she took the next journal which came to her hand. It was the ‘Whirligig.’
Idly and listlessly she began glancing over its imbecile tittle-tattle. Suddenly her gaze was riveted. She had come upon the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert.’
There was no mistaking the innuendo. That it referred to herself she could not doubt. Trembling like a leaf, she held the abominable journal in her hand, and almost by accident came upon the second paragraph.
She read on in horror, stung to the quick—
‘A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged, before he bought it.’
It was real, then; all her horrible fear was justified. Her enemy had not threatened in vain.
The room swam round her as she sank back, half swooning in her chair. Fortunately there was no one to observe her, for her face was pale as marble, and she seemed like one about to die.