pale, and looked both tired and excited. She had been to Dick
Garstin on an unpleasant errand, and she had failed in achieving what
she had attempted to bring about. Garstin had flatly refused not to
exhibit Arabian's portrait. And she had been obliged to tell Arabian of
his refusal.

The man at the bureau gave her Lady Sellingworth's note, and she took it
up with her to her sitting-room. As she sat down to read it she noticed
the words on the envelope, "Strictly private," and wondered what it
contained. She did not recognize the handwriting as Adela's. She took
the letter out of the envelope and saw again the warning words.

"What can it be about?"

Before she read further she felt some unpleasant information was in
store for her, and for a moment she hesitated. Then she looked at the
address on the paper: "18A Berkeley Square."

It was from Adela! She frowned. She felt hostile, already on the
defensive, though she had, of course, no idea what the letter was about.
But when she had read it her cheeks were scarlet, and she crushed the
paper up in her hand.

"How dare she write to me like that! I don't believe it. I don't believe
a word of it! She only wants to take him away from me as she is trying
to take Alick Craven."

Instantly she had come to a conclusion about Adela's reason for writing
that letter. She remembered the strange episode in the _Bella Napoli_
on the previous evening--Adela's extraordinary departure when Craven had
come to speak to her and Arabian. She had not seen Craven again. There
had been no explanation of that flight. In this letter, between the
lines, she read the explanation. Adela must know Arabian, must have
had something to do with him in the past. They had, perhaps, even been
lovers. She did not know the age of Arabian, but she guessed that he was
about thirty-five, perhaps even thirty-eight. Adela was sixty now. They
might have been lovers when Arabian was quite young, perhaps almost
a boy. At that time Adela had been a brilliant and conquering beauty,
middle-aged certainly, over forty, but still beautiful, still full of
charm, still bent on conquest. Miss Van Tuyn remembered the photograph
of Adela which she had seen at Mrs. Ackroyde's. Yes, that was it. Adela
knew Arabian. They had been lovers. And now, out of jealousy, she had
written this abominable letter.

But the girl read it again, and began to wonder. It was strangely
explicit, even for a letter of a jealous and spiteful