"That is quite true. Without my evidence they can prove nothing."
"They have found proof that I was in Birmingham at the time."
"Yes, yes; I know what they have found. They have found enough to establish a suspicion—a strong suspicion, difficult to dissipate—which would cling to us all."
"Cling? Cling? What would that mean—to me?"
"We must, therefore, avoid publicity, if we can. We are threatened with public exposure. That, if possible, I say, must be avoided. Are you listening? If there is still time, we must prevent scandal."
"I can no longer bear it, I say." She pressed her hand to her forehead. "It drives me mad! I thought, last night, I was mad." She threw herself on a sofa, and buried her head in her hands. "Doctor"—she started up again—"that man has been here again. He has found some one—I don't know—I forget—some one who remembers me—who recognizes me."
"So I believe—and then?"
"Day and night the thought is always with me. How can I bear the disclosure? The papers will ring with it."
"I hope there will be no disclosure. Believe me, Lady Woodroffe, no one can be more anxious than myself to avoid disclosures and scandals."
Lady Woodroffe, this calm, cold, austere person, whose spoken words moved the conscience of her audience, if not their hearts, whose printed papers carried conviction, if not enthusiasm, gave way altogether, and sobbed and cried like a young girl.