After the first onset several of the women who had apartments to let said she would not do for them, and in effect dismissed her. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. It was no marriage at all. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things.
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