"Speak out!" he cried. "What has happened?"
"You surely know what has happened. You have treated me like the cur you are—and that is speaking plainly. You've sacrificed me in order to save yourself."
"From what?"
"From exposure. To me, ruin is not a matter of days, but of hours."
"You're speaking in enigmas. I don't understand you," he cried impatiently. "Krail and I have at last been successful. We know now the true source of your husband's huge income, and in order to prevent exposure he must pay—and pay us well too."
"Yes," she laughed hysterically. "You tell me all this after you've blundered."
"Blundered! How?" he asked, surprised at her demeanour.
"What's the use of beating about the bush?" asked her ladyship. "The girl is back at Glencardine. She knows everything, thanks to your foolish self-confidence."
"Back at Glencardine!" gasped Flockart. "But she dare not speak. By heaven! if she does—then—then—"
"And what, pray, can you do?" inquired the woman harshly. "It is I who have to suffer, I who am crushed, humiliated, ruined, while you and your precious friend shield yourselves behind your cloaks of honesty. You are Sir Henry's friend. He believes you as such—you!" And she laughed the hollow laugh of a woman who was staring death in the face. She was haggard and drawn, and her hands trembled with nervousness which she strove in vain to repress. Lady Heyburn was desperate.