ut her hand:

"Good-night, Herr Helfen. I, too, will not believe without proof."

We shook hands, and she went away.

* * * * *

The lamp still burning, the room cold, the stove extinct. Eugen seated
motionless near it.

"Eugen, art thou asleep?"

"I asleep, my dear boy! Well, how was it?"

"Eugen, I wish you had been there."

"Why?" He roused himself with an effort and looked at me. His brow was
clouded, his eyes too.

"Because you would have enjoyed it. I did. I saw Miss Wedderburn, and
spoke to her. She looked lovely."

"In that case it would have been odd indeed if you had not enjoyed
yourself."

"You are inexplicable."

"It is bed-time," he remarked, rising and speaking, as I thought,
coldly.

We both retired. As for the whisper, frankly and honestly, I did not
give it another thought.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MAY'S STORY.

[Illustration: Music, SCHUMANN]

Following Arkwright, I joined Adelaide and von Francius at the foot of
the orchestra. She had sent word that she was tired. Looking at her, I
thought indeed she must be very tired, so white, so sad she looked.

"Adelaide," I expostulated, "why did you remain so long?"

"Oh, I did not know it was so late. Come!"

We made our way out of the hall through the veranda to the entrance.
Lady Le Merchant's carriage, it seemed, was ready and waiting. It was
a pouring night. The thaw had begun. The steady downpour promised a
cheerful ending to the carnival doings of the Monday and Tuesday; all
but a few homeless or persevering wretches had been driven away. We
drove away too. I noticed that the "good-night" between Adelaide and
von Francius was of the most laconical character. They barely spoke, did
not shake hands, and he turned and went to seek his cab before we had
all got into the carriage.

Adelaide uttered not a word during our drive home, and I, leaning back,
shut my eyes and lived the evening over again. Eugen's friend had
laughed the insidious whisper to scorn. I could not deal so summarily
with it; nor could I drive the words of it out of my head. They set
themselves to the tune of the waltz, and rang in my ears:

"He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgrace
that he is hiding. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five years
ago."

The carriage stopped. A sleepy servant let us in. Adelaide, as we went
upstairs, drew me into her dressing-room.

"A moment, May. Have you enj