ther-like carelessness was gone. My
life--my very soul--was at stake. I could hardly utter the little word
"_Entrez!_" my throat was so tight, so dry.

The very young youth who opened the door was not the one I had sent to
the Ritz. But I had no time to wonder why not, when he announced: "_Un
monsieur et une dame, en bas, demandent a voir Mademoiselle_."

My head whirled. Could it be?--but, surely no! They would not have come
to see me. Yet whom did I know in Paris? Who had learned that we were at
this hotel? Had the monsieur and the dame given their name? No, they had
not. They had said that Mademoiselle would understand. They were in the
_salon_.

I heard myself reply that I would descend _tout de suite_. I heard
myself tell Brian that I should not be long away. I saw my face in the
glass, deathly pale in its frame of dark hair, the eyes immense, with
the pupils dilating over the blue, as an inky pool might drown a border
of violets and blot out their colour. Even my lips were white. I was
glad I had on a black dress--glad in a bad, deceitful way; though for a
moment after learning who Jimmy Beckett was, I had felt a true thrill of
loyal satisfaction because I was in mourning for my lost romance.

I went slowly down the four flights of stairs. I could not have gone
fast without falling. I opened the door of the stuffy _salon_, and
saw--the dearest couple the wide world could hold.

CHAPTER IV

They sat together, an old-fashioned pair, on an old-fashioned sofa,
facing the door. The thing I'd thought impossible had happened. The
father and mother of Jim Beckett had come to me.

For some reason, they seemed as much surprised at sight of me as I at
sight of them. We gazed at each other for an instant, all three without
moving. Then the old man (he was old, not middle-aged, as most fathers
are nowadays) got to his feet. He took a step toward me, holding out his
hand. His eyes searched mine; and, dimmed by years and sorrow as they
were, there was in them still a reminder of the unforgotten, eagle-gaze.
From him the son had inherited his high nose and square forehead. Had he
lived, some day Jim's face might have been chopped by Time's hatchet
into just such a rugged brown mask of old-manliness. Some day, Jim's
thick and smooth brown hair might have turned into such a snow-covered
thatch, like the roof of a cottage on a Christmas card.

The old lady was thin and flat of line, like a bas-relief that had come
a