the wave of some Polar sea. He looked up at the
gilded angels, then dropped his eyes and saw what he had come to see.

Slowly threading her way through the increasing throng, came the old
woman whom he had watched so often and by whom he had been watched.
To-night she had on her summer dress, a respectable, rather shiny gown
of grayish mauve, a bonnet edged with white ribbon, a pair of white
thread gloves. She carried her little bag and a small Japanese fan.
Walking in a strange, flat-footed way that was peculiar to her, and
glancing narrowly about her, yet keeping her hand almost still, she
advanced towards the band-stand. As she came opposite to Artois the
orchestra of women struck up the "Valse Noir," and the old woman stood
still, impeded by the now dense crowd of listeners. While the demurely
sinister music ran its course, she remained absolutely immobile. Artois
watched her with a keen interest.

It had come into his mind that she was the aunt of Peppina, the
disfigured girl, who perhaps to-night was sleeping in the Casa del Mare
with Vere.

Presently, attracted, no doubt, by his gaze, the old woman looked across
at Artois and met his eyes. Instantly a sour and malignant expression
came into her long, pale face, and she drew up a corner of her upper
lip, as a dog sometimes does, showing a tooth that was like a menace.

She was secretly cursing Artois.

He knew why. Encouraged by his former observation of her, she had
scented a client in him and had been deceived, and this deception had
bred within her an acrid hatred of him. To-night he would chase away
that hatred. For he meant to speak to her. The old woman looked away
from him, holding her head down as if in cold disdain. Artois read
easily what was passing in her mind. She believed him wicked, but
nervous in his wickedness, desirous of her services but afraid to invite
them. And she held him in the uttermost contempt. Well, to-night he
would undeceive her on one point at least. He kept his eyes upon her
so firmly that she looked at him again. This time he made a sign of
recognition, of understanding. She stared as if in suspicious amazement.
He glanced towards the dome, then at her once more. At this moment the
waiter came up. Artois paid his bill slowly and ostentatiously. As he
counted out the money upon the little tray he looked up once, and saw
the eyes in the long, pale face of the venerable temptress glitter while
they watched. The music ceased, the