r voice. It was hardened, tearless,
without emotion.

"Monsieur--where is he?"

The girl at his side sprang up with a sharp cry to her who questioned.
Then he raised his eyes. Jacqueline was unaware of the sobbing girl who
clung to her. Her face was changed to marble, her body as rigid.

"Take me to him," she spoke again, still with that deathly authority of
the grave.

The man stammered before what he had done. The great beads stood out on
his forehead. "You would not--you must not--you----"

"He is mine," she said simply. "Wait, I shall be ready, at once." She
passed into an inner room, the portieres falling after her.

"She's--she's getting on her hat," Boone muttered inanely. "Buh'the,
she's got to be stopped! She's--God, why don't he come? It's shuah ten
minutes. It's--What's that?"

Someone had knocked. In the instant Boone had the hall door ajar.

"Round to the balcony window, hurry!" he whispered.

Then he turned, caught Berthe by the hand, and drew her quickly out into
the hall. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the portieres
rustle, but he dared not look back.

Jacqueline stepped into the room, and her hat was upon her head. It was
of straw, with a drooping brim. She had thrown a long cloak over her
thin dress. There was ice in her veins on this tropical June day. She
paused, for she saw that the room was deserted. But no--there was a
shadow between her and the balcony door. She stared at it, and her eyes
grew big. The cloak slipped to the floor, and her fingers worked in the
tapestry behind her. She fluttered weakly, like a wounded dove on the
ground. Her knees trembled under her. And the man there? He was gazing
about him in a puzzled way, for the glare outside still blinded him.
Then he saw. He reached her, and caught her as she sank. He felt two
soft arms, but icy cold, drop as lead around his neck. The white form he
held was rigid, and he thought of shrouds and the chilled death sweat.
With savage despair he crushed her to him. After a time her body slowly
began to relax.

"Oh, oh, my lad, my lad!" he heard her crying faintly, in a kind of
hysteria.

He touched her hair dazedly, with unutterable tenderness.

"There, there--sweetheart!"

The word came, though he had never used it before.

Blood awoke, and coursed, sluggishly at first, through her being, until
her heart tripped and throbbed and pounded against his own. Her head lay
on his breast, the hat hanging by its ribbons ov