g in
the park with her lover. Hugh had introduced them, and had afterwards
explained that the girl was the adopted daughter of a great friend of
his father.

Dorise little dreamed that if her lover married her he would inherit the
remainder of old Mr. Henfrey's fortune.

"Do come over to the ball at Nice to-night," the girl urged presently as
they stood with hands clasped gazing into each other's eyes. "It will be
nothing without you."

"Ah! darling, that's very nice of you to say so, but I think we ought to
be discreet. Your mother has invited the Count to go with you."

"I hate him!" Dorise declared. "He's all elegance, bows and flattery. He
bores me to death."

"I can quite understand that. But your mother is fond of his society.
She declares that he is so amusing, and in Paris he knows everyone worth
knowing."

"Oh, yes. He gave us an awfully good time in Paris last season--took us
to Longchamps, and we afterwards went to Deauville with him. He wins and
loses big sums on the turf."

"A born gambler. Everyone knows that. I heard a lot about him in the
Travellers' Club, in Paris."

"But if mother telephones to you, you'll come with us--won't you?"
entreated the girl again.

The young man hesitated. His mind was full of the tragic affair of
the previous night. He was wondering whether the end had come--whether
Mademoiselle's lips were already sealed by Death.

He gave an evasive reply, whereupon Dorise, taking his hand in hers,
said:

"What is your objection to going out with us to-night, Hugh? Do tell me.
If you don't wish me to go, I'll make an excuse to mother and she can
take the Count."

"I have not the slightest objection," he declared at once. "Go,
dearest--only leave me out of it. The _bal blanc_ is always good fun."

"I shall not go if you refuse to go," she said with a pout.

Therefore in order to please her he consented--providing Lady Ranscomb
invited him.

They had wandered a long way up the narrow, secluded valley, but had met
not a soul. All was delightful and picturesque, the profusion of wild
flowers, the huge grey moss-grown boulders, the overhanging ilexes and
olives, and the music of the tumbling current through a crooked course
worn deep by the waters of primeval ages.

It was seldom that in the whirl of society the pair could get a couple
of hours together without interruption. And under the blue Riviera sky
they were indeed fraught with bliss to both.

When they returned t