e of
power more inspiring. Yet he had never felt more impotent. It was
woman's hysteria against which he had to fight. The ordinary weapons
were useless. He realised quite well her condition and the dangers
resulting from it. The heart of the woman was once more beating to its
own natural tune. If Hunterleys should present himself within the next
few minutes, not all his ingenuity nor the power of his millions could
save the situation.

Plans shaped themselves almost automatically in his mind. He passed from
his own apartments, through a connecting door into a large and
beautifully-furnished salon. A woman with grey hair and white face was
lying on a couch by the window. She turned her head as he entered and
looked at him questioningly. Her face was fragile and her features were
sharpened by suffering. She looked at her husband almost as a cowed but
still affectionate animal might look towards a stern master.

"Do you feel well enough to walk as far as Lady Hunterleys' apartment
with the aid of my arm?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied. "Does Violet want me?"

"She is still feeling the shock," Draconmeyer said. "I think that she is
inclined to be hysterical. It would do her good to have you talk with
her."

The nurse, who had been sitting by her side, assisted her patient to
rise. She leaned on her husband's arm. In her other hand she carried a
black ebony walking-stick. They traversed the corridor, knocked at the
door of Lady Hunterleys' apartment, and in response to a somewhat
hesitating invitation, entered. Violet was lying upon the sofa. She
looked up eagerly at their coming.

"Linda!" she exclaimed. "How dear of you! I thought that it might have
been Henry," she added, as though to explain the disappointment in her
tone.

Draconmeyer turned away to hide his expression.

"Talk to her as lightly as possible," he whispered to his wife, "but
don't leave her alone. I will come back for you in ten minutes."

He left the two women together and descended into the hall. He found
several of the reception clerks whispering together. The concierge had
only just recovered himself, but the place was beginning to wear its
normal aspect. He whispered an enquiry at the desk. Sir Henry Hunterleys
had just come in and had gone upstairs, he was told. His new room was
number 148.

"There was a note from his wife," Draconmeyer said, trying hard to
control his voice. "Has he had it?"

"It is here still, sir," the clerk