I have seen it. I suppose it can only be a chance
resemblance to somebody or other."

Virginia opened her lips to speak, but closed them again hastily. Kate
then threw a questioning glance her way, and saw that she had suddenly
grown pale. "I wish you or George would find out who she is," the girl
said presently. "She is one of the handsomest women I ever saw. If
possible, I should like to know her."

"I can promise that you shall at least know her name," replied Roger,
smiling. "It wouldn't be safe to say more." And, true to his word, an
hour after dinner he came to the private drawing-room where Virginia and
Lady Gardiner sat, with the required information.

"The strange beauty is a Portuguese countess," he announced. "Her name is
De Mattos, and she is a widow, spending the winter here alone, except for
her maid. She is much admired, especially by men, but apparently does not
care to make acquaintances; otherwise, as she seems to be a person whose
name the gossips respect, your wish might perhaps have been gratified."

"Have you remembered yet where you saw her before?"

"I've remembered where I saw some one like her. But it is not the same
woman."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. The other was a blonde with Titian hair. And she has been
dead for years."

Virginia said no more, and appeared to forget the Portuguese countess.
But when Lady Gardiner complained of being tired, and went off to bed,
that she might be fresh for sight-seeing next morning, also to write a
puzzled letter to the Marchese Loria, Virginia remained. George Trent had
gone to a Cairene theatre, and she and Roger were alone together.

Scarcely had the door closed upon Kate Gardiner, when the girl sprang up
from her chair, and before Roger knew what she meant to do, was sitting
on a divan beside him, her hand on his sleeve.

"Roger," she exclaimed, "I thank you a thousand, thousand times for
insisting that I should come here."

"You haven't seen anything yet," he returned. "Thank me after to-morrow."

"It's the most wonderful thing in the world that we should have come,"
she went on. "If we had employed the cleverest detectives in Paris and
London they might never have discovered what chance, merest chance--if
there is such a thing as chance--has put into our hands to-night."

"What are you talking about, dear child?" asked Roger.

"I'm talking about Liane Devereux, the actress that Maxime Dalahaide is
supposed to have murdered. You've b