maid!' he exclaimed. 'Assuming your absurd superstition to be
a serious thing, you are taking the wrong means to prove it true. If I
and my brother and sister have seen nothing, how should Agnes Lockwood
discover what was not revealed to us? She is only distantly related to
the Montbarrys--she is only our cousin.'

'She was nearer to the heart of the Montbarry who is dead than any of
you,' the Countess answered sternly. 'To the last day of his life, my
miserable husband repented his desertion of her. She will see what
none of you have seen--she shall have the room.'

Francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives that
animated her. 'I don't see what interest you have in trying this
extraordinary experiment,' he said.

'It is my interest not to try it! It is my interest to fly from
Venice, and never set eyes on Agnes Lockwood or any of your family
again!'

'What prevents you from doing that?'

She started to her feet and looked at him wildly. 'I know no more what
prevents me than you do!' she burst out. 'Some will that is stronger
than mine drives me on to my destruction, in spite of my own self!' She
suddenly sat down again, and waved her hand for him to go. 'Leave me,'
she said. 'Leave me to my thoughts.'

Francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out of her
senses. For the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her. The night, so
far as he knew, passed quietly. The next morning he breakfasted early,
determining to wait in the restaurant for the appearance of the
Countess. She came in and ordered her breakfast quietly, looking dull
and worn and self-absorbed, as she had looked when he last saw her. He
hastened to her table, and asked if anything had happened in the night.

'Nothing,' she answered.

'You have rested as well as usual?'

'Quite as well as usual. Have you had any letters this morning? Have
you heard when she is coming?'

'I have had no letters. Are you really going to stay here? Has your
experience of last night not altered the opinion which you expressed to
me yesterday?'

'Not in the least.'

The momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face when she
questioned him about Agnes, died out of it again when he answered her.
She looked, she spoke, she ate her breakfast, with a vacant
resignation, like a woman who had done with hopes, done with interests,
done with everything but the mechanical movements and instincts of life.

Francis went out, on the