ter that her eyes travelled.

"Will you take me in, Marquis?" she begged. "It is the only formality we
will allow ourselves."

They entered a long, low dining-room, panelled with oak, and with the
family portraits of the owner of the house still left upon the walls.
Dinner was served upon a round table, and was laid for four. There was a
profusion of silver, very beautiful glass, and a wonderful cluster of
orchids. The Marquis, as he handed his hostess to her chair, glanced
towards the vacant place.

"It is for my companion, an Austrian lady," she explained. "To-night,
however, I think that she will not come. She was a distant connection of
Bernadine's, and she is much upset. We leave her place and see. You will
sit on my other side, Baron."

The fingers which touched Peter's arm brushed his hand, and were
withdrawn as though with reluctance. She sank into her chair with a
little sigh.

"It is charming of you two, this," she declared softly. "You help me
through this night of solitude and sadness. What I should do if I were
alone, I cannot tell. You must drink with me a toast, if you will. Will
you make it to our better acquaintance?"

No soup had been offered, and champagne was served with the _hors
d'[oe]uvres_. Peter raised his glass, and looked into the eyes of the
woman who was leaning so closely towards him that her soft breath fell
upon his cheek. She whispered something in his ear. For a moment,
perhaps, he was carried away, but for a moment only. Then Sogrange's
voice and the beat of his forefinger upon the table stiffened him into
sudden alertness. They heard a motor-car draw up outside.

"Who can it be?" the Baroness exclaimed, setting her glass down
abruptly.

"It is, perhaps, the other guest who arrives," Sogrange remarked.

They all three listened, Peter and Sogrange with their glasses still
suspended in the air.

"The other guest?" the Baroness repeated. "Madame von Estenier is
upstairs, lying down. I cannot tell who this may be."

Her lips were parted. The lines of her forehead had suddenly appeared.
Her eyes were turned toward the door, hard and bright. Then the glass
which she had nervously picked up again and was holding between her
fingers, fell on to the tablecloth with a little crash, and the yellow
wine ran bubbling on to her plate. Her scream echoed to the roof and
rang through the room. It was Bernadine who stood there in the doorway,
Bernadine in a long travelling ulster and the a