"Don't see her, dear," urged the Red Widow.
"Oh! That's all very well, but I can't be out each time she comes. I should be compelled to see her. And no doubt she would have the man with her. Then, when she found out that you had both gone, she would turn upon me."
"No, no," laughed Boyne. "You will have money ready to give her if she turns very hostile, so as to afford us further time. Their only game is blackmail. They suspect something concerning the old man at Chiswick—thanks to talking too loud in the presence of one's servants. It ought to be a lesson to us all."
"It is, Bernie," said the Red Widow, rising from her chair and crossing the room to get her handbag which she had left on the sofa by the window.
As she took it up, she chanced to glance out into the street.
"My God!" she gasped. And next second she sprang from the window. Her face was white as paper. "My God!" she repeated, reeling, and steadying herself by the back of a chair.
"What's happened?" asked Boyne, springing up.
"No, no! For Heaven's sake, don't go near the window. He has seen me—I'm sure he recognised me!"
"Who?"
"Emery—that solicitor in Manchester! He—he—knows me as—as Augusta Morrison—the dead woman!"