CHAPTER VII.
FOR some time Philippa, utterly dazed, lay back among the cushions, gazing vacantly into the face of her captor, who sat opposite, a square-headed man, with beady eyes and a thin, determined mouth, while Victoria sat and wondered ruefully at her own quixotism. She had no cause to love Philippa; but she had obeyed the impulse of class. She had seen one of her own world suddenly caught in this equivocal net, and had turned to help, forgetting for the moment her wrongs at the hands of this woman.
Sharply Philippa straightened herself, and as if her stolen voice had suddenly been returned to her, burst out: "What do you mean? How dare you arrest me? What have I done? It's wicked—it's cruel! Tell me this instant!"
"Now, lady," the detective said, soothingly, "don't you get riled; just you be quiet. You're
