e well to attract as little attention as possible. She
could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way
into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he
do?

It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it
was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The
Abbe took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been
the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even
Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked
respect. The Abbe was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and
of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive
to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest
families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden,
and had little need to say much, for the Abbe loved to hear himself
talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without
the Abbe noticing the fact. His companionship enabled her to escape from
the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to
withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the
evening amusements, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced
and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so
sure of the coming Saturday as mademoiselle must surely be.

In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden
walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a
sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she
watched from her window which overlooked the garden.

So the Monday and the Tuesday passed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the
week was passing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent.
She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was
used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the
general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help
her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point
in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday,
and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.

Had not the Abbe been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had
he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted
that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.

"There is a new arrival I hear, mademoisell