lowed in a way that suggested tears were not far distant.
"Why did you tell Drew that?" he asked. "You know it's not true."
"It is, it must be, it" She stopped suddenly and raised her eyes to his as he stood looking down at her. "Some one saw me leave here last night."
"Good God!" he cried aghast.
"And—and so I've had to save my reputation at your expense." Her voice was unnatural, hysterical.
"Who was it that saw you?" demanded Beresford almost roughly.
"Sir Alfred and Lady Tringe; they were driving past as we were standing waiting for the taxi."
With a groan Beresford sank back into his chair.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
"I didn't want to worry you," she said nervously.
"Perhaps they didn't see you," he said hopefully.
"They did," she said with averted eyes. "Their taxi stopped to allow mine to draw up, and I saw Lady Tringe point us out to Sir Alfred. It'll be all over London by dinner-time." She looked at him from under her lashes as he sat, his arms hanging down each side of the chair, the picture of despair.
"I'm sorry; but—but I had to do it. Are you very angry?" she asked tremulously.
"Angry! I?" he enquired dully.
He tried in vain to remember all he had told her the previous evening. The knowledge that she had not received his letters, or his telephone messages
