Miss Wardour and the private detective had just completed their work of transferring to paper a minute description of the Wardour diamonds, when the door opened quietly, and Francis Lamotte, pale, heavy-eyed, but quite composed, appeared before them.
“Have you finished your work?” he asked wearily. “If so, may I intrude?”
“Come, by all means,” replied Constance, gently. “You are not intruding, Frank.”
“Thank you.” He came forward, and sank listlessly into a chair. “Constance, who brought you this news about—Sybil?”
Constance glanced toward the detective, and Francis, interpreting the look, hastened to say:
“It is known to Mr. Belknap, I presume—this shameful business. There is no use of secrecy, where all the world is already agape. My sister, you tell me, has eloped with a low brute.
