n spite of my
abhorring the impulse of curiosity, the sweeping, flaunting, swaggering
handwriting of Pasquale worried me.

Judith came in, looking much as she had done on the occasion of my last
visit, worn and anxious, with a strange expression in her eyes.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, extending a lifeless
hand.

I raised it to my lips.

"I would have gladly waited all day to see you, Judith," I said.

"Really?"

She laughed in an odd way.

"And idle speech from me to you at the present time would be an
outrage," I answered. "I have passed through much since I saw you last."

"So have I," said Judith. "More than you imagine. Well," she continued
as I bowed my head accepting the rebuke, "what have you got so important
to tell me?"

"Much," said I. "In the first place you must be aware of what has
happened, for I can't help seeing there a letter from Pasquale."

She glanced swiftly at the desk and back again at me.

"Yes," she replied, "he is in Paris."

I was amazed at her nonchalance.

"Has he told you nothing?"

"Perhaps Sir Marcus Ordeyne would like to see his letter," she said,
ironically.

"You know perfectly well that I would not read it," said I.

Judith laughed again, and rolled her handkerchief into a little ball
between her nervous fingers.

"Forgive me," she said. "I like to see the _grand seigneur_ in you now
and then. It puts me in mind of happier days. But about Pasquale--the
only thing he tells me is that he is not able to execute a commission
for me. He told me on the night he drove me home that he was going to
Paris, and I asked him to get me some cosmetic. Carmine Badouin, if you
want to know. I have got to rouge now before I am fit to be seen in the
street. I am quite frank about it."

"Then you know nothing of Carlotta?" I cried.

"Carlotta?"

"She eloped with that double-dyed, damned, infernal villain, the day
after I saw you."

Judith looked at me for a moment, then closed her eyes and turned her
head away, resting her hand on the table. My indignation waxed hot
against the scoundrel. How dare he write casual letters to Judith about
Carmine Badouin with his treachery on his conscience? I know the terms
of flippant grace in which the knave couched this precious epistle. And
I could see Carlotta reading over his shoulder and clapping her hands
and cooing: "Oh, that is so funny!"

When I had told Judith the outlines of the story, pacing up and down th