I tried to do so; you see, I had to wait for him. He was very late,
so I fell asleep. It was after eleven to-day when I awoke to find Sir
Charles had not left his room. I ventured to suggest that he had better
be roused or he would be too late for your wedding. Nobody could make
him hear, so the door was broken in. He was quite dead."

Beatrice listened in a dull kind of way. There was no trace of tears in
her eyes. She had suffered so terribly, lately, that she could not cry.
The horrible doubt as to whether she was free or not could not be kept
out of her mind. Yet it seemed so dreadfully unnatural.

"He died in his sleep, I suppose?" Beatrice asked.

"That nobody can say yet," Mark said. "The doctor we called in was very
guarded. Nobody seems to have been in the bedroom, though the
sitting-room adjoining is not locked, and last night I saw a lady come
out of it, a lady in grey."

"A lady in grey!" Beatrice cried. "What a singular thing, Mark! Do you
mean to say it was the same lady who sat next to you in the Paris
theatre?"

"Well, yes," Mark admitted. "It was the same. I have not told anybody
but you, and it seems to me that nothing will be gained by mentioning
the fact."

Beatrice nodded thoughtfully. She could not identify the grey lady, the
Slave of Silence, with anything that was wrong. And yet it was strange
how that silent woman had come into her life. She must have been known
to Sir Charles or she would never have ventured into his sitting-room.
If she was still staying in the hotel, Beatrice made up her mind to seek
her out. There was some strange mystery here that must be explained. It
was uppermost in Beatrice's mind as she descended from the hansom and
passed through the curious group of servants into the hall.

The fine suite of rooms was ready for the festive throng; in the
dining-room a banquet had been spread out. The scarlet flush of red
roses gave a warm note to the room; the sun came streaming through the
stained-glass windows, and shone upon the silver and glass and red glow
of wine, and on the gold foil of the champagne bottles. In the centre of
the table stood a great white tower that Beatrice regarded vaguely as
her wedding cake. A shudder passed over her as she looked at it. She
longed for something dark and sombre, to hide her diamonds and the sheen
of her ivory satin dress.

The place was silent now; the very bareness and desolation of the scene
sickened Beatrice to the soul. No gue