her things. It was money--always money. Wethermill was
not the first to seek the good graces of Mme. Dauvray through her
pretty companion. Helene Vauquier went home. She was not discontented
with her conversation. Wethermill had paused long enough before he
denied the suggestion of her words. She approached him a few days later
a second time and more openly. She was shopping in, the Rue du Casino
when he passed her. He stopped of his own accord and spoke to her.
Helene Vauquier kept a grave and respectful face. But there was a pulse
of joy at her heart. He was coming to her hand.

"Monsieur," she said, "you do not go the right way." And again her
strange smile illuminated her face. "Mlle. Celie sets a guard about
Mme. Dauvray. She will not give to people the opportunity to find
madame generous."

"Oh," said Wethermill slowly. "Is that so?" And he turned and walked by
Helene Vauquier's side.

"Never speak of Mme. Dauvray's wealth, monsieur, if you would keep the
favour of Mlle. Celie. She is young, but she knows her world."

"I have not spoken of money to her," replied Wethermill; and then he
burst out laughing. "But why should you think that I--I, of all
men--want money?" he asked.

And Helene answered him again enigmatically.

"If I am wrong, monsieur, I am sorry, but you can help me too," she
said, in her submissive voice. And she passed on, leaving Wethermill
rooted to the ground.

It was a bargain she proposed--the impertinence of it! It was a bargain
she proposed--the value of it! In that shape ran Harry Wethermill's
thoughts. He was in desperate straits, though to the world's eye he was
a man of wealth. A gambler, with no inexpensive tastes, he had been
always in need of money. The rights in his patent he had mortgaged long
ago. He was not an idler; he was no sham foisted as a great man on an
ignorant public. He had really some touch of genius, and he cultivated
it assiduously. But the harder he worked, the greater was his need of
gaiety and extravagance. Gifted with good looks and a charm of manner,
he was popular alike in the great world and the world of Bohemia. He
kept and wanted to keep a foot in each. That he was in desperate
straits now, probably Helene Vauquier alone in Aix had recognised. She
had drawn her inference from one simple fact. Wethermill asked her at a
later time when they were better acquainted how she had guessed his
need.

"Monsieur," she replied, "you were in Aix without a valet,