laughed. "Do I? You remind me of an eel, or a little grey mouse
trying to get out of a trap. There is no way out, my dear, unless, of
course, you want me to kill your Frenchman. I am a good shot."

"I will come."

She looked for pink as she went out of the room, and saw a very
pretty woman in rose-coloured tulle sitting alone and near the door.

She had given ungrudgingly, unfaltering, and there was no shadow of
regret in her eyes; it was nothing to her that he should care for this
other little body, for bare white shoulders and a fluff of yellow
hair. He had never been more to her than a means to an end, and he was
to be that now.

She took a tram from the Piazza del Popolo to the Rotonda. There was a
large ironmonger's shop at the corner; she remembered having noticed
it before. She went in and asked to look at some of the pistols they
had in the window. Several were brought out for her to see, and she
chose a small one. The young man who served her showed her how to load
it and pull the trigger. He wrapped it in brown paper and made a loop
in the string for her to carry it by. She thanked him.

The bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria when she left
the Hotel de Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when she reached her
own room. The stars were bright, shining through a rift of clouds that
hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the awkwardly-shaped parcel she
carried down upon the table while she lit her candle. Then she got her
scissors and cut the string. This was the key of a door through which
she must pass. Death was the way out.

The little flame of the candle gleamed on the polished steel. It was
almost a pretty thing, so smooth and shining. It was well worth the
money she had paid for it; it was going to be useful, indispensable
to-morrow.

Suddenly, in spite of herself, she began to think of her grave. It
would be dug soon. She would be brought to it in a black covered cart.
No prayers would be said, and there would be no sound at all but that
of the earth falling upon the coffin.

She sprang up, her face chalk white, her eyes wide and dark with
terror. She was afraid, horribly afraid of this lonely and violent
end. Jean would never know that she died rather than let another
man--Jean would never know--Jean--

"I can't! I can't!" she said aloud piteously.

She was trembling so that she had to cling to the banisters as she
went down the stairs to save herself from falling. There was a
po