ot yet, not yet," I whispered. "But it is coming. Yes, I see
myself, and--and--a woman--a very pretty woman. I am clasping her
hand."

"Don't you recognize the woman?" Again Emmeline's voice vibrated like
a lamentation in my ear. I did recognize the woman, and the sweat
stood on my brow.

"It is Rosetta Rosa!"

"And what else do you see?" my questioner pursued remorselessly.

"I see a figure behind us," I stammered, "but what figure I cannot
make out. It is threatening me. It is threatening me! It is a horrible
thing. It will kill me! Ah--!"

I jumped up with a nervous movement. The crystal, left to itself,
rolled off the table to the floor, and fell with a thud unbroken on
the soft carpet. And I could hear the intake of Emmeline's breath.

At that moment the double portiere was pulled apart, and some one
stood there in the red light from the Japanese lantern.

"Is Mr. Foster here? I want him to come with me," said a voice. And it
was the voice of Rosa.

Just behind her was Sullivan.

"I expected you'd be here," laughed Sullivan.

CHAPTER V

THE DAGGER AND THE MAN

Rosetta Rosa and I threaded through the crowd towards the Embankment
entrance of the Gold Rooms. She had spoken for a few moments with
Emmeline, who went pale with satisfaction at the candid friendliness
of her tone, and she had chatted quite gaily with Sullivan himself;
and we had all been tremendously impressed by her beauty and fine
grace--I certainly not the least. And then she had asked me, with a
quality of mysteriousness in her voice, to see her to her carriage.

And, with her arm in mine, it was impossible for me to believe that
she could influence, in any evil way, my future career. That she might
be the cause of danger to my life seemed ridiculous. She was the
incarnation of kindliness and simplicity. She had nothing about her of
the sinister, and further, with all her transcendent beauty and charm,
she was also the incarnation of the matter-of-fact. I am obliged to
say this, though I fear that it may impair for some people the vision
of her loveliness and her unique personality. She was the incarnation
of the matter-of-fact, because she appeared to be invariably quite
unconscious of the supremacy of her talents. She was not weighed down
by them, as many artists of distinction are weighed down. She carried
them lightly, seemingly unaware that they existed. Thus no one could
have guessed that that very night she had left the