worked, struggling for utterance, as it might be against the pressure of
invisible fingers.

"The beast! Oh, the beast!" she whispered.

The older woman threw an arm over her shoulders and led her to the big
chair before the fireplace. Io let herself be thrust into it, stiff and
unyielding as a manikin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale would
have asked questions. She went more directly to the point. Picking up
the newspaper she opened it. Halfway across an inside page ran the
explanation of Io's collapse.

BRITON'S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE LOST

read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, and
below;

_Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends_

After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot,
blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through.

"Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite for
print," she remarked grimly.

"He's on one of his brutal drunks." The words seemed to grit in the
girl's throat. "I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he were dead!"

Miss Van Arsdale laid hold on her shoulders and shook her hard. "Listen
to me, Irene Welland. You're on the way to hysterics or some such