no intention of doing so. The palmist had also told her--and this was
really rather curious--that she would meet, when abroad, a foreign woman
who would have a considerable influence on her life. Well, in this very
Hotel de l'Horloge Mrs. Bailey had come across a Polish lady, named Anna
Wolsky, who was, like Sylvia herself, a young widow, and the two had
taken a great fancy to one another.

It was most unlikely that Madame Wolsky would have the slightest
influence on her, Sylvia Bailey's, life, but at any rate it was very
curious coincidence. "Pharaoh" had proved to be right as to these two
things--she had come abroad, and she had formed a friendship with a
foreign woman.

Mrs. Bailey was still standing by the table, and still holding the pink
card in her hand, when her new friend came into the room.

"Well?" said Anna Wolsky, speaking English with a strong foreign accent,
but still speaking it remarkably well, "Have you yet decided, my dear,
what we shall do this afternoon? There are a dozen things open to us,
and I am absolutely at your service to do any one of them!"

Sylvia Bailey laughingly shook her head.

"I feel lazy," she said. "I've been at the Bon Marche ever since nine
o'clock, and I feel more like having a rest than going out again, though
it does seem a shame to stay in a day like this!"

The windows were wide open, the June sun was streaming in, and on the
light breeze was borne the murmur of the traffic in the Avenue de
l'Opera, within a few yards of the quiet street where the Hotel de
l'Horloge is situated.

The other woman--Anna Wolsky was some years older than Sylvia
Bailey--smiled indulgently.

"_Tiens!_" she cried suddenly, "what have you got there?" and she took
the pink card out of Sylvia's hand.

"Madame Cagliostra?" she repeated, musingly. "Now where did I hear that
name? Yes, of course it was from our chambermaid! Cagliostra is a friend
of hers, and, according to her, a marvellous person--one from whom the
devil keeps no secrets! She charges only five francs for a consultation,
and it appears that all sorts of well-known people go to her, even those
whom the Parisians call the _Gratin_, that is, the Upper Crust, from the
Champs Elysees and the Faubourg St. Germain!"

"I don't think much of fortune-tellers," said Sylvia, thoughtfully.
"I went to one last time I was in London and he really didn't tell me
anything of the slightest interest."

Her conscience pricked her a little as she