"It is nothing!" he stammered. "If you were only out of this your gown would be the last thing that I should think of. How did it happen?"
"I will tell you when we are at home. This room is comfortable enough for ordinary purposes, but I don't like it."
"When—you are—at home?"
"Yes. My father has gone to arrange for my immediate return."
"You mean—Mr. Chandler?"
"Whom else should I mean? Mr. Chandler, to be sure."
"But—there must be some mistake."
"There is a mistake, of course. That goes without saying, when I am an inmate of a prison."
"But—I—mean about Mr. Chandler. The charge against you was made by him ten minutes ago, and signed with his name."
Evelyn Chandler arose slowly from her chair. Every particle of the color had slowly left her cheeks, leaving her ghastly in pallor. She gazed at Pyne as though convinced of his insanity.