tertain any one today," he declared,
fretfully; "that trouble last night spoiled my rest. I knew the woman
Margeret lied when she came back and said it was only an accident. I'm
nervous as a cat today. The doctors forbid me every form of
excitement, yet they quarter a Yankee spy in the room over mine, and
commence shooting affairs in the middle of the night. It's--it's
outrageous!"

He fell back in the chair, exhausted by his indignation. Judithe took
the fan from Pluto's hand and waved it gently above the dark,
vindictive face. His eyes were closed and as she surveyed the cynical
countenance a sudden determination came to her. If she _should_ leave
for Savannah in the morning, why not let Matthew Loring hear, first,
of the plans for Loringwood's future? She knew how to hurt Kenneth
McVeigh; she meant to see if there was any way of hurting this
trafficker in humanity, this aristocratic panderer to horrid vices.

"You may go, Pluto," she said, kindly. "I will ring if you are
needed."

Both the colored men went out, closing the door after them, and she
brought a hassock and placed it beside his chair, and seated herself,
after taking a book from the shelf and opening it without glancing at
the title or pages.

"Since you refuse to be entertainer, Monsieur Loring, you must submit
to being entertained," she said, pleasantly; "shall I sing to you,
read to you, or tell you a story?"

Her direct and persistent graciousness made him straighten up in his
chair and regard her, inquiringly; there was a curious mocking tone in
her voice as she spoke, but the voice itself was forgotten as he
looked in her face.

The light from the lamp was shining full on her face, and the face was
closer to him than it had ever been before. If she designed to dazzle
him by thus arranging a living picture for his benefit she certainly
succeeded. He had never really seen her until now, and he caught his
breath sharply and was conscious that one of the most beautiful women
he had ever seen in his life was looking at him with a strange smile
touching her perfect mouth, and a strange haunting resemblance to some
one once known, shining in her dark eyes.

"What sort of stories do you prefer--love stories?" she continued, as
he did not speak--only stared at her; "or, since we have had a real
adventure in the house last night, possibly you would be interested in
the intrigue back of that--would you?"

"Do you mean," he asked, eagerly, "that you