The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. You are my prisoner, murderer. A live man. They telephoned that you had absconded with ten thousand, and that if I would make good the loss within twenty-four hours, they would not prosecute.
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