man plot, nor of Sagan's bitter enmity against
himself, as proved by the attempt on her own life. Fears for her father,
for Rallywood, and for Maasau crowded upon her, though she kept up an
appearance of composure that Isolde might not guess the importance of
the information she had given.

'I was thinking of Captain Rallywood,' answered the girl at last,
offering the excuse Isolde would be most likely to accept as true. 'I
did not know he had so many enemies. But is he not in Revonde?'

'No, he has not been at the barracks since yesterday afternoon. I sent
him an invitation. You never give me credit for sincerity, but I am
steady in my friendships. I do not mean to drop him because he talked
all that nonsense at Kofn Ford. You boasted about M. Selpdorf's
power--make him use it now to save Rallywood. I begin to believe that
you are really as cold as you pretend to be, Valerie, you care so
little! Whereas I, in spite of all that has happened, would serve him if
I could.'

'I shall see my father when I return to-night, I promise you.'

Isolde buttoned her glove thoughtfully.

'You must be careful not to let him suspect that you have any especial
interest in Jack,' she said, 'for that would be merely an additional
reason for letting Rallywood--go.'

Valerie could not misunderstand the euphemism.

'Isolde, my father is not a savage!' she exclaimed.

'Perhaps not,' said Madame de Sagan simply. 'He is, I know, a very
charming man in society, but my experience goes to show that every man
is a savage--_au fond_.'

Words which embody the opinion of more women than one cares to number.

It was three o'clock when an officer of the Guard, leaving the
wind-swept darkness of the country behind him, rode through the north
gate of Revonde into the vivid black and white perspectives of the city,
where close outside the brilliant line of electric lights night herself
seemed to stand incarnate, a jealous intensity of blackness.

Rallywood had picked up Unziar's relays of horses at certain points, and
on the whole had made good time of the ride. Now he crossed the bridge
that lies opposite to the gate of the Palace, and mounted the curving
streets towards the Chancellerie.

He swung from his horse at the foot of the broad flight of granite steps
under its overhanging portico as a carriage dashed up on the other side.
The high doors above were flung open and a roll of red cloth dropped
from step to step down to the pavement, a