effect would be acute. What
extraordinary event can such a blaze be intended to celebrate?"

"I don't know," she returned, a little shortly. "He has told us
nothing."

Her eyes strayed anxiously to the door. The movements of her hands were
nervous.

"I wish he would come," she muttered--and stood away from them.

Tranter drew his companion across the room.

"Well?" he asked, smiling. "How do you like this somewhat showy
welcome?"

"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont slowly--"into what manner of house
have you brought me?"

"Copplestone is a curious fellow," Tranter replied. "I warned you to be
prepared for something unusual."

"It is a crooked house," said Monsieur Dupont. "It stands on a crooked
road, and there are crooked paths all round it. And everything is
crooked inside it."

"These decorations are crooked enough, at any rate," Tranter laughed.

"These decorations," said Monsieur Dupont, "are not only crooked--they
are bad. Very bad."

He lowered his voice. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"Don't you see," he whispered, "that decorations can be good or bad,
just as men and women can be good or bad? These decorations are bad.
They are a mockery of all decorations--a travesty the most heartless of
the motives for which good and pure people decorate. There is nothing
honest or straightforward about them. They are a mean confusion of all
the symbols of joy. They are put up for some cruel and detestable
purpose----"

The door flew open with a snap, and a young man of dishevelled
appearance burst into the room. His eyes were wild, and his face was
working with the intensity of his passion.

"Christine," he panted. "Christine...."

He stopped, and gazed round in a dazed fashion, clenching and
unclenching his hands.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sprang forward with a suppressed cry, and confronted
him tensely.

"Well?" she cried sharply--"what about Christine?"

He did not seem to be aware of her. He was staring at the flags, the
lights, the flowers, and the colored paper.

"It is true then," he muttered. "These things...."

The woman was as white as death. Her hands were locked together. She
swayed.

"What is true?" she gasped.

The young man took no notice of her. Copplestone's elderly manservant
appeared in the doorway, and approached him.

"Mr. Copplestone declines to see you, sir--and requests that you will
leave his house. I have orders, otherwise, to send for the police."

The youn