.
'Tobain,' he said, 'always, as you know, I lock the door of this room
when I enter. To-day I shall not do so. But you must understand that no
one is permitted to enter but my friend, Mr. Arnold Greatson, who will
return this evening. Those are my orders, Tobain.' 'But, Monsieur,
dejeuner?' 'Remember, Tobain--Mr. Arnold Greatson only.' Then I caught a
glimpse of his face, Monsieur, and I was afraid. I have been afraid ever
since. It was the face of a young man, so brilliant, so eager. I was at
my master's marriage, and the look was there then. He went in and he
closed the door, and since then, Monsieur, I have heard no sound, and
many hours have passed. Monsieur will please enter quickly."

For myself, I shared, too, Tobain's nameless apprehensions. I left her,
and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer. So I entered.

The room was in darkness, but the opening of the door touched a spring
under the carpet, and several heavily-shaded electric lamps filled the
apartment with a soft dim light. Monsieur Feurgeres was sitting opposite
to me, his eyes closed, a faint smile upon his lips. He had the air of a
man who slept with a good conscience, and whose dreams were of the
pleasantest. Close drawn to his was another chair, against which he
leaned somewhat, and over the arm of which one hand was stretched,
resting gently upon the soft mass of deep pink roses, whose perfume made
fragrant the whole room. I spoke to him.

"Monsieur Feurgeres," I cried, "it is done. I have brought Isobel. She
is here."

There was no answer. Had I, indeed, expected any, I could almost have
believed that the smile, so light and delicate a thing, which quivered
upon his pale lips, deepened a little as I spoke. But that, of course,
was fancy, for Monsieur Feurgeres had won his heart's desire. Softly,
and with fingers which felt almost sacrilegious, I broke off one of the
blossoms with which the empty chair was laden, and with it in my hands I
went back to Isobel.

CHAPTER VI

Isobel knew the whole truth. I told her one evening--the only one on
which we two had dined out together alone. I think that the weather had
tempted me to this indulgence, which I had up to now so carefully
avoided. An early summer, with its long still evenings, had driven us
out of doors. The leaves which rustled over our heads, stirred by the
faintest of evening breezes, made sweeter music for us than the violins
of the more fashionable restaurants, and