carriage.
They may know me here--you see what I have risked. And I don't care.
You thought to-night that I was your enemy--and I am not. I am not your
enemy at all."

Her hand fell as though by accident upon his, and remained there. Mr.
Sabin was very nearly embarrassed. He knew quite well that if she were
not his enemy at that moment she would be very shortly.

"Lucille," she continued, "will blame me too. I cannot help it. I want
to tell you that for the present your separation from her is a certain
thing. She acquiesces. You heard her. She is quite happy. She is at the
ball to-night, and she has friends there who will make it pleasant for
her. Won't you understand?"

"No," Mr. Sabin answered.

She beat the ground with her foot.

"You must understand," she murmured. "You are not like these fools
of Englishmen who go to sleep when they are married, and wake in the
divorce court. For the present at least you have lost Lucille. You heard
her choose. She's at the ball to-night--and I have come here to be with
you. Won't you, please," she added, with a little nervous laugh, "show
some gratitude?"

The interruption which Mr. Sabin had prayed for came at last. The
musicians had left, and many of the lights had been turned down. An
official came across to them.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, addressing Mr. Sabin, "but we are
closing now, unless you are a guest in the hotel."

"I am staying here," Mr. Sabin answered, rising, "but the lady--"

Lady Carey interrupted him.

"I am staying here also," she said to the man.

He bowed at once and withdrew. She rose slowly to her feet and laid her
fingers upon his arm. He looked steadily away from her.

"Fortunately," he said, "I have not yet dismissed my own carriage.
Permit me."

* * * * *

Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick as he slowly made his way along
the corridor to his rooms. Things were going ill with him indeed. He was
not used to the fear of an enemy, but the memory of Lady Carey's white
cheeks and indrawn lips as she had entered his carriage chilled him.
Her one look, too, was a threat worse than any which her lips could
have uttered. He was getting old indeed, he thought, wearily, when
disappointment weighed so heavily upon him. And Lucille? Had he any
real fears of her? He felt a little catch in his throat at the bare
thought--in a moment's singular clearness of perception he realised that
if Luci