elcomed her as a daughter,"
she said. "I dare say you are right, Geoff. I shall write and tell her
to come."

She walked away to the window, looking across the pine-bound cliffs to
the sea. Time had dealt with her very leniently, as indeed he needs must
with those whose life is like one long summer's day. Her brow was still
smooth, and her hair, rich and soft as ever, had not a single tinge of
gray. Her figure, too, was perfect; the lithe gracefulness of youth had
only ripened into the majesty of dignified womanhood. There was not a
society paper which did not sometimes allude to her as "the beautiful
Lady St. Maurice."

But just at that moment her eyes were sad, and her face was troubled.
Her husband, looking up suddenly, saw it, and throwing down his paper,
walked across the room to her side.

"Adrienne, what is it, little woman?" he asked fondly.

"I was thinking of poor Leonardo," she answered. "Geoffrey, it is very
foolish to let it trouble me, is it not?"

"Very, darling. Why should it?"

"Do you remember how terrible he looked when they arrested him on the
sands, and those fierce threatening words of his? Even now I can hear
them sometimes in my ears."

"Foolish little woman."

"I cannot help it. This girl's letter, with its note of proud
independence, brings it all back to me. Geoffrey, Leonardo di Marioni
comes of a race who pride themselves more than anything upon keeping
their word in love and in hate. You can scarcely understand their fierce
passionate nature. I have always felt that when the day of his release
came he would remember his oath, and strive to work some evil upon us."

Lord St. Maurice passed his arm around his wife's waist, with a
reassuring smile.

"It is five-and-twenty years ago, love. Is not that enough to set your
fears at rest?"

She looked at him without a smile, grave and serious.

"The five-and-twenty years are up, Geoffrey. Leonardo is free!"

"What of it?" he answered carelessly. "If he has not forgotten us
altogether, what harm could he do us?"

She clasped her hands around his neck, and looked into his face.

"Geoffrey, I have a confession to make," she whispered. "Will you
forgive me?"

"It's a rash promise, but I'll chance it," he answered, smoothing her
hair and smiling down into her upturned face.

"Geoffrey, he is in London. I have seen him."

He looked a little surprised, but he did not draw away.

"Seen him! Where? When?"

"Do you remember the day