y from
under frowning brows. His pallor and stifled fury of impatience made him
formidable, almost startling. Peter thought of a wounded stag at bay.

"I beg your pardon," she stammered, losing the gay self-confidence of
the spoilt and pretty American girl. "I'm a great friend of Mary
Grant's. I must know where she is."

The man's faced changed instantly. Fierce impatience became fiery
eagerness. For a second or two he looked at Peter without speaking, his
interest too intense to find expression in words. Then, as she also was
silent, he said:

"There is no one I would rather see than a friend of Mary's, except Mary
herself. Tell me where you knew her."

"At the convent in Scotland," Peter answered promptly. "I suppose she's
told you about it. Did she mention her friend Molly Maxwell?"

"She said she had two friends named Mary. We had little time to talk
together--not many days in all. When did you see her last?"

"In November, just before she left the convent. She went and stayed with
an aunt a few weeks in London, and then came here. She wrote me about
you, and I recognized you from her description. That's why I----"

"Forgive me. I believe you can be of the greatest service to Mary, and
to me." He glanced at Americo, who held the door open. "Let us walk in
the woods, if you aren't afraid of damp. I've something important to
say."

They went down the steps and out of the gate together, like old
acquaintances. Peter had no longer any doubt that the "family trouble"
concerned Mary; but it was easy to see that whatever it might be, Prince
Vanno was on her side. Peter admired him, and burned to serve her
friend.

"There has been an abominable lie told," Vanno began, as soon as they
were outside his brother's gate. "I must explain to you quickly what's
happened, if you're to understand. I went to Rome to tell my father of
our engagement. I left Mary with my brother and sister-in-law. I had two
happy letters from her. This morning I arrived here in the Rome express.
I came straight to Cap Martin, expecting to find Mary. Instead I found
my brother and his wife alone. My sister-in-law, I must say in justice,
seemed terribly grieved at what had happened. She could or would tell me
nothing. But Angelo--my brother--began some rigmarole about Mary having
run away from her convent-school years ago with a man, and--but I won't
repeat the story. I refused to listen. I can never forgive my brother."

"Good for you!" excla