had a hundred francs," Dauntrey reproached
his wife.

"No," she replied. "And I wouldn't have told you now, if you weren't
obliged to keep out of the Casino."

He turned his head aside, and was silent.

"Aren't you taking luggage?" Lady Dauntrey inquired of Mary.

"Yes. I have a small trunk and a hand-bag with me."

"Where are they?"

"In the room of the concierge at Mrs. Winter's."

"Let me think a minute," said Eve. "Why should we wait for a train?
There's sure not to be one when we want it. We have no luggage, and you
say your trunk is small. We might hire a carriage and drive. It would be
much pleasanter. Perhaps you can lend me a few things for to-night?"

"Of course," Mary answered, trying to be cordial.

"How good you are to us!" Eve exclaimed. "We can never be grateful
enough. Dauntrey, will you go on to the railway station and order a
commissionnaire to fetch Mary's things from the Winters' house? He can
bring them back to the station in his cart."

"Why shouldn't we pick the things up on our way, if we're to have a
carriage?" her husband argued.

"Because my plan's the best," she insisted. "We must eat before we
start. There won't be much food in the villa, as Mary's paying a
surprise visit. We'll go to a little hotel by the station. I'm frozen,
and food will do us all good. By the time we're ready to start the man
will have brought the luggage."

"It sounds unnecessarily complicated," Dauntrey muttered; but Eve gave
him a gimlet look from under level brows, and he slouched away
obediently, leaving his wife to follow slowly with the girl.

XXXV

The last familiar face Mary saw as she left Monte Carlo was that of the
hunchbacked dwarf at St. Roman. He was hobbling away from his pitch to
go home, and from the window of the closed landau Mary waved a hand to
him as the horses trotted by.

"Who was that?" Eve asked, leaning forward, then throwing herself back
as if she wished not to be seen.

"Only the dwarf beggar at the bridge," Mary answered.

"Oh, only a beggar!" Lady Dauntrey settled herself comfortably again.

The voice of the waves came up with the wind in a ceaseless moan, and
for the first time Mary hated the sound of the sea. It was like the
wailing of a great company of mourning women. Far above the road,
Roquebrune clock struck seven. It was scarcely night, but darkness
loomed ahead like a black wall, toward which the horses hurried yet
could never pass. In this wall gli