eeable to Sylvia.... She wondered uncomfortably what her
trustee would think of her friendship with Count Paul de Virieu--with
this Frenchman who, when he was not gambling at the Casino, spent every
moment of his time with her.

But deep in her heart Sylvia knew well that when Bill Chester was there
Paul de Virieu would draw back; only when they were really alone together
did he talk eagerly, naturally.

In the dining-room of the Villa he hardly ever spoke to her, and when
they were both in the Baccarat-room of the Club he seldom came and stood
by her side, though when she looked up she often found his eyes fixed on
her with that ardent, absorbed gaze which made her heart beat, and her
cheeks flush with mingled joy and pain.

Suddenly, as if her thoughts had brought him there, she saw Count Paul's
straight, slim figure turn in from the road through the gates of the
Villa.

He glanced up at her window and took off his hat. He looked cool,
unruffled, and self-possessed, but her eager eyes saw a change in his
face. He looked very grave, and yet oddly happy. Was it possible that he
had news at last of Anna Wolsky?

He mounted the stone-steps and disappeared into the house; and Sylvia,
getting up, began moving restlessly about her room. She longed to go
downstairs, and yet a feminine feeling of delicacy restrained her from
doing so.

A great stillness brooded over everything. The heat had sent everyone
indoors. M. Polperro, perhaps because of his Southern up-bringing, always
took an early afternoon siesta. It looked as if his servants followed his
example. The Villa du Lac seemed asleep.

Sylvia went across to the other window, the window overlooking the large,
shady garden, and there, glancing down, she saw Count Paul.

"Come into the garden--," he said softly in English; and Sylvia, leaning
over the bar of her window, thought he added the word "Maud"--but of
course that could not have been so, for her name, as the Count knew well,
was Sylvia! And equally of course he always addressed her as "Madame."

"It's so nice and cool up here," she whispered back. "I don't believe it
is half so cool in the garden!"

She gazed down into his upturned face with innocent coquetry,
pretending--only pretending--to hesitate as to what she would do in
answer to his invitation.

But Sylvia Bailey was but an amateur at the Great Game, the game at which
only two--only a man and a woman--can play, and yet which is capable of
such i