o the town the dusk was already falling, and the
great arc lamps along the terrace in front of the Casino were already
lit. Hugh took her as far as the entrance to the Metropole and then,
after wishing her au revoir and promising to go with her to Nice if
invited, he hastily retraced his steps to the Palmiers. Five minutes
later he was speaking to the old Italian at the Villa Amette.

"Mademoiselle is still unconscious, m'sieur," was the servant's reply to
his eager inquiry. "The doctors have been several times this afternoon,
but they hold out no hope."

"I wonder if I can be of any assistance?" Hugh asked in French.

"I think not, m'sieur. What assistance can any of us give poor
Mademoiselle?"

Ah, what indeed, Hugh thought as he put down the receiver.

Yet while she lived, there was still a faint hope that he would be
able to learn the secret which he anticipated would place him in such a
position that he might defy those who had raised their hands against his
father and himself.

His marriage with Dorise, indeed his whole future, depended upon the
disclosure of the clever plot whereby Louise Lambert was to become his
wife.

His friend Brock was not in the hotel, so he went to his room to
dress for dinner. Ten minutes later a page brought a message from Lady
Ranscomb inviting him to go over to Nice to the ball.

He drew a long breath. He was in no mood for dancing that night, for he
was far too perturbed regarding the critical condition of the notorious
woman who had turned his friend.

On every hand there were whispers and wild reports concerning the
tragedy at the Villa Amette. He had heard about it from a dozen people,
though not a word was in the papers. Yet nobody dreamed that he, of all
men, had been present when the mysterious shot was fired, or that he
was, indeed, the cause of the secret attack.

He dressed slowly, and having done so, descended to the _salle a
manger_. The big white room was filled with a gay, reckless cosmopolitan
crowd--the crowd of well-dressed moths of both sexes which eternally
flutters at night at Monte Carlo, attracted by the candle held by the
great god Hazard.

Brock was not there, and he seated himself alone at their table near
the long-curtained window. He was surprised at his friend's absence.
Perhaps, however, he had met friends and gone over to Beaulieu, Nice, or
Mentone with them.

He had but little appetite. He ate a small portion of langouste with an
exquisit