ttempted to keep it at fever-heat. Jest followed jest with increasing
rapidity. Laughter rang out on the smallest provocation. It was a
competition in hilarity. And the gayest of all were Christine Manderson,
and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.

The night was hot and sultry. The distant roll of thunder added to the
tenseness of the atmosphere. And hearing it, Christine Manderson
shuddered.

"Storms are unlucky to me," she said, listening until the sullen roll
died away. "Why should we have one to-night--of all nights?"

The clergyman adroitly twisted the subject of lightning into a
compliment. As the dinner drew to a somewhat loud conclusion,
Copplestone's face grew flushed, and his hands unsteady. The manager's
voice and stories thickened, and the thoughts of the Russian danseuse
became fixed on Aberdeen. Tranter and Monsieur Dupont were abstemious
guests. But the Frenchman seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

They rose from the fairy table, and strolled out through the open
windows into the garden. The air had grown hotter and more oppressive,
the thunder louder. Frequent flashes lit up the darkness.

The glowing tips of cigars and cigarettes disappeared in various
directions across the lawns.

* * * * *

Monsieur Dupont discovered, to his cost, the truth of his remark that
the house was surrounded by crooked paths. The grounds were a veritable
maze. He had purposely slipped away alone, and in five minutes was
involved in a network of twisting, thickly-hedged paths, all of which
seemed only to lead still further into the darkness.

He stopped, and listened. He could hear no voices. Not a sound, except
the gathering thunder, disturbed the silence. He was completely cut off.
Even the lights of the house were hidden from him. He had turned about
so many times that he did not even know in which direction it lay.
Coupled with the effect of what had happened in the house, the influence
of this tortuous garden was sinister and unnerving. In the lightning
flashes, now more vivid and frequent, he tried in vain to determine his
position. He wandered about, trying path after path, doubling back on
his own tracks--only to find himself more and more helplessly lost.

"_Nom de Dieu_," said Monsieur Dupont, in despair.

He halted suddenly, standing as still as a figure of stone. On his right
the hedge was thick and high. He could see nothing. But the whisper of a
voice had reached him.

The path t