ertainment--a surprise. And as he talked it seemed to the girl
that his eyes never left her face. Beverley promised to move to Newport
when Roger wished. She promised to write the invitations, and--she
promised to wear the queen's pearls.

At last Roger went, without having alluded to Clodagh Riley. Whether
this were deliberate, or careless, Beverley could not guess. But she was
thankful.

The instant Roger had gone Beverley seized the paper he had dropped, and
found what she wanted. "Mysterious Murder at Hotel Westmorland" was the
heading at the top of a column on the first page. She sat down and read
the whole report.

That day was among the most terrible of Beverley's chequered life. She
had had several engagements, but she telephoned to put them off. Not for
anything would she have left the house, for she hoped to have a message
from Clo. She feared to hear also from one whom Peterson served, but it
was best that she should be at home if such a message arrived.

"Have they kept their word? Have they killed Stephen because I didn't
send back the papers?" she constantly asked herself. "What will they do
next? Will they advertise again in the newspapers? Will they telephone?
Will they send another man, now Peterson is dead? Or if not, how will
they reach me? Surely they won't leave me in peace for long!"

The day passed with outward monotony. It was only within herself that
each moment was different from every other.

When evening came at last, nothing had happened, yet Beverley's nerves
were jarred as if by a succession of shocks. As Leontine dressed her for
dinner, a sharp tap at the door made her jump and cry out. "A
special-delivery letter for me, Madame," announced the Frenchwoman.
"Have I Madame's permission? It is strange I do not know the hand. It is
but a common yellow envelope, addressed in pencil, to Mademoiselle
Leontine Rossignol--perhaps from someone who begs. Never have I received
a letter by special delivery!"

"You'd better open it," said Beverley, relieved that the letter was not
for her.

"Rossignol is so odd a name, Madame, that everyone remembers, because it
means nightingale," said Leontine, gingerly tearing off an end of the
flimsy yellow envelope.

Then, suddenly she cried out. "But Madame, the letter is from
Mademoiselle Riley! I do not see why she writes to me. I understand
nothing of what she says. Will Madame read?"

Hiding eagerness, Beverley took the half sheet of commercial pa