e went out, as his father had done, out under
the stars and sat on the little bench under the ivy, and smoked a cigar.
He felt a curious thrill of excitement, quite out of keeping with his
loneliness. Was it just the memory of that old love-story that had
stirred his blood? Why did his pulse leap, his blood race through his
veins like this, his heart rise to his throat and hammer there so
fiercely, so strangely. Only one influence in all the world had ever
done this to him--only one influence--_one woman_--and she was miles and
miles away!

Suddenly, impelled by some force beyond his power of resistance--a sense
of someone's gaze fixed upon him, he raised his eyes to the ivy above
him. There, faint and indistinct in the shadow of the leaves, but quite
unmistakable, he saw the white, frightened face of the girl he loved,
her luminous eyes looking straight down into his.

He sprang to his feet, and pulled himself up by the ivy to the level of
the terrace, but she had vanished and the watching stars danced
mockingly overhead. Was he dreaming? Had that strange old love-story
taken away from him the last remaining shred of sanity? Surely he hadn't
seen Opal! She was in Paris--damn it!--and he clenched his teeth at the
thought--certainly not at Lucerne!

He looked at the windows of that enchanted room. All was darkness and
silence. Cursing himself for a madman, he strode into the hall and
examined the Visitors' List. Suddenly the blood leaped to his face--his
head reeled--his heart beat to suffocation. He was not dreaming, for
there, as plainly as words could be written, was the entry:

_Miss Ledoux and maid, New Orleans, U. S. A._

She was there--in Lucerne!--his Opal!

CHAPTER XXIII

How Paul reached his room, he never knew. He was in an ecstasy--his
young blood surging through his veins in response to the leap of the
seething passions within.

Have you never felt it, Reader? If you have not, you had better lay
aside this book, for you will never, never understand what
followed--what _must_ follow, in the very nature of human hearts.

Fate once more had placed happiness in his grasp--should he fling it
from him? Never! never again! He remembered his mother and her great
love, as she had bade him.

This day, following as it did his mother's letter, had been a revelation
to him of the possibilities of life, and of his own capacity for
enjoying it. In one week, only one week more, he must take upon his
sho