Cecily, however, had a further and more serious statement to make.
"When I am suspicious, madame," she said, "I am thinking not so much of Mr. Treves's visit to the fort----"
She was at Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's back now, hooking her dress, and a silence fell.
"I am thinking, madame," went on Cecily, "of the night of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's death."
She paused again, but her mistress made no remark, and Cecily went on:
"On that night, madame, when I had folded away your things, I took a skirt into the housekeeper's room to brush. While I brushed it I talked with Mr. Duckett, the butler, who was also there. There was no ring at the front-door bell, madame--and yet when I returned to your bedroom there was a light there."
"You left it on before you went down, Cecily!"
"No, madame, I turned it off. I was very surprised to see the light, as I knew you were out, madame, and I--I----"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and scrutinised the maid's sallow face and bead-like eyes.
"You looked through the keyhole!" she said.
"And saw my husband, who had come back unexpectedly."
"No, madame; I saw Mr. Treves. Mr. Beecher Monmouth had not come home then; and Mr. Treves, madame, was standing near your dressing-table with a small box in his hands."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth flashed an intense glance upon her.
"A black box, madame, the one you kept among your furs."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand suddenly leapt out and gripped Cecily's wrist. Her voice grew low, little more than a hissing whisper.
"What are you saying, Cecily? What was Mr. Treves doing?"
Cecily twisted her arm, attempting to free it.
"Please, madame, you are hurting my wrist!"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thrust forth her face--her brilliant eyes had grown hard as agate.
"I thought, madame, you knew he was there."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth relaxed her grip; she stepped back a pace or two and threw up her head.
"It was natural I should think that," protested Cecily, recoiling a step or two.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stared in utter amazement.
"Yes, madame; I saw him fling something under the table, and found afterwards it was your key. He must have taken it from your bag, madame, when he visited you in the afternoon."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth suddenly twisted on her heel and began to pace the room. The truth had smitten her like a blow. Wild thoughts surged through her brain. All these long months she had believed herself tricking and duping Bernard Treves--her business in life was to trick, dupe, and mould men to her own ends, to the ends of the Fatherland, to the imposition of its monstrous Kultur upon the world--and now this man, this handsome, drug-sodden weakling had out-manoeuvred her! She had spun a web for him, had toyed with him, expended her charm upon him, and all the time he had been secretly and darkly laughing in his sleeve. Instead of a friend and a tool, he had been an astute and daring enemy!