Matilda's face was gray with awe and helpless woe.
They whispered about their predicament.

What should they do?
Should they flee again ?--and how ?--and where ?--and what good would flight do them, especially since Mr.Pyecroft might once more follow?
Twice they had leaped from the frying-pan, and each time had landed in a fire hotter than the one preceding.

A third flight might drop them into a fire worse even than this in which they now sizzled.
And as for the specific plan which had brought them back--for Mrs.De Peyster to steal unnoticed into her suite and hide there--that seemed impossible of achievement with all these people circulating about the house, especially that all-observing Mr.Pyecroft.If Mr.Pyecroft should catch her in one suspicious move, then his quick mind would deduce the rest, and everything would be up--everything! There was, of course, yet another way--to give up and disclose her identity herself.

But she was now far, far too deeply involved: to confess and thus by her own act bring limitless and appalling humiliation on herself, this was unthinkable! She must go on, on, blindly on--with the desperate hope that in some manner now unseen she might in the end disentangle herself and come out of the affair undiscovered and with dignity untarnished.

The two were still whispering over their predicament, when at the door sounded another knock, loud and confident.