Celia went back to her room and sank into a chair.

She had been upheld during the scene by the excitement and the strain; she had been strong and purposeful a few minutes ago; but now the reaction had set in and she felt weak and exhausted.

It was difficult to realize that the thing was real; it was the first time in her life that anything dramatic, tragical, had touched her.

She had read of such incidents in novels, and even then, presented in the guise of fiction, with all its licence, such a self-sacrifice, so absolutely illogical and immoral, had seemed incredible to her; and yet here was a case, under her very eyes.
When she was able to think clearly, one or two points in the affair stood out from the rest.

If the forgery was detected, and the young man under suspicion, how was it that he was still free, still unarrested?
Perhaps they had not yet been able to trace him; but, no doubt, they were on his track, they might discover him and capture him any moment.
She shuddered, and crouched over the fire as if she had been struck by a sudden chill.