r took me to Rome, and letters from friends mentioning her had
said there was some "hushed-up scandal." Exactly what it was nobody
seemed to know. One thought it had to do with cocaine. Another fancied
it was a question of kleptomania or "something really weird." The world
had forgotten her since, but here she was, a Mrs. Jennings, married to a
Devonshire village doctor, greeting her husband like a good wife at the
railway station.

Nothing could have been more perfect than her conception of this new
part she'd chosen to play. Neat, smooth brown hair; plain tailor-made
coat and skirt; little white waistcoat; close-fitting toque; low-heeled
russet shoes; gloves to match: admirable! Only the "liquid powder" which
gives the strange pallor loved in Paris suggested that this _chic_
figure had ever shown itself on the stage.

"I wish I knew _what_ the scandal had been!" I murmured half to myself
and half to Jim, as we parted in the station after introductions.

"That sounds unlike you, darling," Jim reproached me. "Why should you
want to know?"

"Because," I explained, "whatever it was, is the reason why she married
this country doctor. If there'd been no scandal, Mademoiselle Gaby
Lorraine wouldn't be Mrs. Paul Jennings."

CHAPTER VI

THE PICTURES

Our interview with Sir Beverley Drake was most satisfactory. Because he
had known old Mr. Ralston and Grandmother, the great specialist granted
my earnest request.

"I had almost vowed not to receive one solitary patient," he laughed,
"yet here I am promising to motor thirty miles for the pleasure of
calling on one."

"You won't regret it," I prophesied. "You will find Major Murray an
interesting man, and as enthralling a case as you ever met. As for the
bride, you'll fall in love with her. Every man must."

It was finally arranged that he should visit Ralston Murray early in the
following week. He could not go before, as he was expecting visitors;
but it was already Wednesday, so there were not many days to wait.

Jim and I had decided not to run over to see the Murrays at once, but to
give them time to "settle in." We would go on Sunday afternoon, we
thought; but on Saturday I had a telegram from Rosemary. "Would Sir
Beverley be offended if we asked him not to come, after all? Ralston
thinks it not worth while."

I was utterly amazed, for in London she had seemed as keen on consulting
the specialist as I was, and had thanked us warmly for the offer of
bre