bserved Gloria. "You may
as well rest and refresh yourself."

Reanda accepted the invitation, wondering inwardly at the assurance of
the foreign girl. With her Italian speech she should have had Italian
manners, he thought. The three men all carried tapers, as was then
customary, and they all lit them before they ascended the dark
staircase.

"This is an illumination," said Dalrymple, looking back as he led the
way.

Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round. She was following her father,
and Reanda came after her, Griggs being the last.

"One, two, three," she counted, and her eyes met Reanda's.

Without the slightest hesitation, she blew out the taper he held in his
hand. But, for one instant, he had seen in her face the expression of
the dead nun, distinct in the clear light, and close to his eyes.

"Why did you do that?" asked Dalrymple, who had turned his head again,
as the taper was extinguished.

"Three lights mean death," said Gloria, promptly; and she laughed, as
she went quickly up the steps.

"It is true," answered Reanda, in a low voice, as he followed her; and
it occurred to him that in a flash he had seen death written in the
brilliant young face.

Ten minutes later, they were seated around the table in the Dalrymples'
small dining-room. Reanda noticed that everything he saw there evidently
belonged to the hired lodging, from the old-fashioned Italian silver
forks, battered and crooked at the prongs, to the heavy cut-glass
decanters, stained with age and use, at the neck, and between the
diamond-shaped cuttings. There was supper enough for half-a-dozen
people, however, and an extraordinary quantity of wine. Dalrymple
swallowed a big tumbler of it before he ate anything. Paul Griggs filled
his glass to the brim, and looked at it. He had hardly spoken since
Reanda had joined the party.

The artist made an effort to be agreeable, feeling that the invitation
had been a very friendly one, considering the slight acquaintance he had
with the Dalrymples, an acquaintance not yet twenty-four hours old.
Presently he asked Gloria if she had felt no ill effects from her
extraordinary accident in the afternoon.

"I had not thought about it again," she answered. "I have thought of
nothing but your painting all the evening, until that woman sang that
phrase as though she were asking the Conte di Luna for more strawberries
and cream."

She laughed, but her eyes were fixed on his face.

"'Un altr