The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 5, 1903, Page 2

THE SUNDAY CALL. L___—__——-——w put me away In horror if he knew me 1 Judas thet.] was.’ yvears I had been & political spy— ut T owed a grudge to France and which I had promised my father besides, it is different to de- a ry from what it is to de- ve the man you adore. We women are e to individuals. For them we would rifice & cause; and never had I suf- ch acute torture as I did at that the shameful thought that baumont—honorable, noble— ; that even if nothing—noth- 4 wash the staln from he believed to be pure. SRC he he What can be worse for & woman than knowledge that to hold her e secret Such & woman needs nishment. She has all—all ile on this earth. I real- moment, and the realiza- 1 could not speak to d only shudder and sob e ey He tk ht it was but my excitement n r the first time & heavy and I could see in his eyes, hear ce, that never had hs worshiped n this night. Since he had brought e o accept the loan I had insisted meking, to help him out of the dif- in which he had been Invoived loss of the necklace, be hal re- oy. He would love me more than , if possible, and I would take his love as my right, and hide the secret of my treschery as long as I could. But how long would it be? How oould I tell that at this moment the theft of the treaty bad not been discovered, and that the avalanche was net about to overwhelm us both? The fear bade ms cling closer to Max- ime dreading that this might be our last embrace, that for the last light might be shining in for ma o fortune. To sit there in the box the whele house rise to you, applauding, shouting ‘Bravo!’ every man adoring your beauty and your genius, yet to know that you are t is arms and —and t . t “Buppose that they all hated and hissed me?” I.said, drawing back a little, and Jooking up at him. ““Would you still love me then, or does it make me dearer to bave & background of admiration?’ “] would love you better, if there is a * he answered. “You know I am & jealous brute. There'd be a flerce joy in facing & world that had turned against ou.” 7 ¥ hat s thers that would make you 1 asked, dwelling upon the ind of fearful fascination, hanging over the e earth—while you 4 kill you—and ki why speak of such thing ange es it seems that you can ove me, or you would not E0 m to save me from t be colder I these five minutes I remembered wae in ost of be our last! of joy which it power to give him. I spare you t 10 open goes down to keep my prom- “We'll talk c ay—after my deat vet the words rang n ears. I wished that Orry & jest. ne questioningly, but ng t he must d have to keep g which I prided g done yet sagdened, as 1f, , the shadow of my allen upon him the end of the first act. As £ to my dressing-room after reverential air = has if for any reason it for him address me: mademoiselle, & letter, which v requested to put into your he said ses gave @ bound, for I thought el Brent might ve had bad written me: but I suffered se than disappointment as writing on the sealed en- ter was from my enemy, g wor t T am not a coward; the strongest effort pen it oe off page I dread- ninal might dread e's sharp blade, words telling that the treaty was in his hands T had put the thought from me and dls- claimed it to Noel Brent; yet I knew, @eep Gown In my heart, that this was what 1 had feared ever since Noel had @enied having both the treaty and the @lamonds: this—that—that Ipanoff's own egent, not the police, had stolen the docu- ment during the journey. I dreaded, when the sparks had cleared from before my eves, to read an ultima- tum. Jt would be & coup for Ipanoff to bid me choose bgtween marriage with him or annihilation f r Maxime de Ribau- and it would be like d myself r when 1 hed refused him the third ot dissuieing my hatred. he had what he called his honor to to him repenting on my knees ht have known that the man ay down his trumps on the table for me to note so early in the game, The lett 4 me nothing except that he desire see me without delay. For my own seke, he advised me to grant him an interview: and in the confident expecta- tion that 1 would accede to his request, 4 be at the stage door walting for came out. the last straw; yet, even as for my own protection I must What he had to tell me, that I r and order my future conduct gly. But how to meet him at the oor after refusing—as I must re- let Maxime go home with me, my 1 brain was too weary to decide. I "k—I must trust to luck,” perate I gave myself the hands of my maid Agnes to be sed for rtunately for me, perhaps, my part gave me no more time even to think. Bometimes it even enabled me to forget for & few moments, but, when the wo- man I pretended to be had died on the stage, and been resurrected into the wo- man I must be in real life, all the press- ing problems had to be solved at once. First, there was Maxime to be put off and pacified—Maxime, whose help and loving protection I needed so much, yet must deny myself, and hurt him Instesd. He was waiting for me again at the door of my boudoir, and I had at least one thing to be thankful for—I had denied myself to everybody el refusing all in- vitations for the evening after the thea- ter. He took my nds and kissed them passionately; but his face was pale and sad. and my coward consclence gave me & quick stab of fear. *“What is the matter?™ I asked, while inside my head there was a shrieking question: “What if the news had come to him? What if already something has happened—the beginning of the end?” I could have cried with the snapping of the tension when he answered: “It was only that terrible scene—your death, as Helolse, my dear one. It was so horribly real. It was all I could do to sit still in the box and bear it. I wanted to spring on the stage and save you from that ruf- flan. I think I can never come to see you in this part again. You don’t know what it is to touch you once more—warm and alive—your own beautiful self. You will let me go home with you, and stay for a little while, won't you, my queen? How it broke my heart to send him from me! “Don’t think that I éo not want you to be with me,” I sald *I do want you— oh, more than you can guess! But I am 80 tired—I am almost {ll. When I asked you to have supper with me I did not realize how utterly worn out I was.” “My dearest!” he exclaimed. “Then I will not be selfish. You will go home and straight to bed. But you will let me drive with you to the door?” “Even to that I must say mo,” I in- sisted, miserably, straining every nerve to be plausible, to convince him of my wisdom, and not to pain him too much. “You see,”” I went on, “I did not mean, even when I first asked you to suppen from the theater. and if people knew that they would be disarmed, for an actress may do. many things which & woman of society could not do without scandal But they do not know and must not know quite yet, therefore I must be prudent. I must not appear to grant you favors which I will not grant to others; and I have never re- ceived any other man alone after the the- ater. You should be glad that this is true.” “Of course I am glad and proud,” sald Meaxime. “But it's horribly hard to see of you—to-night of all nights.” 1y to-night of all nights?’ I was picious in my gullty cowardice again. “Only that I think 1 love you more than I ever did before, and—I suppose it's the fault of that last scene—I have a wretched, inexplicable sense of impend- g loss.” he words had a specially sharp edge me—one that he did not dream of ing. But I dared not let him ses how plerced me. “It will be all the to meet to-morrow,” I assured Promise me that you will ge home and dream of me as I shall y Then to-morrow before you begin the day's work stop and see me. I shall be up and ready to recelve you, no mat- t w early it may be. But now, to you for being good, I have some- you—something that you will ke very much.” I went quickly, as I finished speaking, rom the boudoir to the dressing-room, where Agnes was putting away my things for the night. She never lea: the room b am out of it, 1or she is a dragon & my jewels, which are pretty if le. To-night the famous in the box with such of my g8 as I had not sold or pawned b ime. I had left the queer red ther case with Noel Brent, and brought diamonds away with me in my ; but as soon as I reached the thea- een by Agnes, I had slipped the into a little embroidered silk bag which I sometimes carried a purse and . This 1 had thrust into.the s0 that unconsciously my mald rding 500,000 francs’ worth of dia- not counting my few trifles. er in the evening I meant before the theater to give the necklace to Maxime and enjoy his surprise and re- the sight of it. But now I had my mind. It was necessary to xime (hateful as those words connection with one so dearly as soon as possible, lest he and Ipanoff should meet and Maxime y misunderstand the nature of my tments with the latter. ‘Besides, I prepared with an answer for the sestions Maxime was certain to ask me co ction with the mysterious recov- T e diamonds. After having talked with Noel Brent everything might be dif- ferent, and at all events I should know better what to say. this resolve, I took the embrof- dered bag from my jewel-box and gave it, th its ribbons tightly knotted, to Max- fme. “This holds something which y. hink precious,” I announced, as I have been at some trouble to get it for you. 8o, for my sake, don't open the bag to see what s Inside until you are et home in your bedroom with Count the door locked.” That 18 more easily promised than gome other things,” said Maxime, smil- g “And I thank you a thousand times advance. Shall I tell you what I hope [ ehall find?—the miniature of yourself in a frame, and with a chaln to hand round my neck over my heart, such as you have said you would give me some day. It feels like that in my hand.” As he spoke he thrust the little bag with its precious ontents into an ineide pocket of his coat. Then there was nothing more for him 10 say except the good-night which I was walting for—hating, yet longing to hear. When he was gone I made Agnes hurry me out of the gold and white brocade of Heloise, and Into my own inconspicu- ous black dress and cloak which 1 had worn to call @on Noel Brent at the Elysee Palace Hotel. Already it was half- past 11, and 1 had to see Count Ipanoft and reach my own house by midnight, in time to receive Noel. 1 was thankful that Maxime's unselfish and trusting love for me had rendered him for once so easy to . and I could only hopé that no y person iight witness my meeting with the Russian to make mischief in the future, L4 My brougham would be waliting for me, I knew, and my plan was to speak to Ipanoff, and then take him up a liitle later, allowing him to drive with me and Agnes, who alwa accompanied =~ me home. We would talk together in Rus- sian, of which Agnes did not understand a word; but her presence would be a pro- tection. and, in case Ipanoff dared to ex- ceed the limits of my forbearance, I had but to press an electric button close to my hand for the carriage to be stopped and the English groom (a stout fellow and devoted to me) to appear at the win- dow. 1 was velled, and T did not turn my eyes to the right or left as 1 walked from the stage door to the brougham, which, as I had expected, was in its place. It was not for me to look about for Ipanoff; it was for him to be awaiting me, and so It fell out. As my groom opened the door for me the Russian stepped forward with a “Good evening, mademoiselle,” softly pronounced in his hated voice. “I will stop for you at the corner of the Rue Boulanger: it would not do, as you must know, for me to take you in here,” 1 whispered, hurriedly. He bowed acquiescence and moved back, that the groom might rec his instruo- tions; and five minutes later he was sit- ting in the brougham beside me, with Agnes seated oppésite. “Now,” 1 began, abruptly, in Russian, cutting short his fulsome praises of my acting, “what have you to say to me?’ 1 was determined to stand cautiously on the defensive, letting each decisive move be made by the adversary. “My mald speaks only French.” “Why are you so cruelly, harsh?’ he exclaimed. “How have I ever offended you, save by loving you too well? Even now, though you have treated me as no man with self-respect should allow him- Self to be treated by & woman, I adore you still, and have risked humiliation in coming to you once mors, solely because I wish to be your friend, sincé you will not have me as your lover.” “I thank you as much as you deserve,” I sald, without attempting to conceal my bitterness. “And I should be still more grateful for enlightenment. Pray.do not beat about the bush, but tell me straight out your purpose in seeking this inter- view.” “I have sought it because I love you and because I desirs to warn you. Every- thing is known.” “] am at & loss to understand you” I replied, though I might have added that I knew well what he wished me to unm- derstand. “You speak in riddles.” because the attempt you made to work me has been thwarted and you hope yet to snatch success from the jaws of fall- ure by trading upon the fears of a weak woman. Now I have lgarned from you what I wished to learn; and I am re- warded for the sacrifice I made in con- senting to see you.” 80 suddenly and with such passion did I use the lash of my tongue tbat for & moment he was stricken into silence. The electric lamp which Ut the brougham shewed me his face, and it had the same look I have seen in the green eyes of & ‘wolf. I had caged his lust for revenge, and for & few seconds I was happy in my triumph, for I was certain now that, whatever had been the fate of the mys- teriously lost treaty, it had not yet come into his hands. He had tried the game of bluff, and I had found him out and ST il B T B " “Must I put it more plainly? Then—the loss of the document is known.” “What document?” I inquired, bent on forcing his hand. “If you must have it, the one that you took from the Foreign Office on the day when the Comte de Ribaumont gave you tea there.” " “And what document was that?” I per- sisted coldly. ‘One of a nature too important to name ‘within hearing of other ears than yours.” ““You refer to Agnes. But as I have told you, French is her only language. What document do you accuse me of stealing from the Foreign Office on the day you name?” ““I accuse you of nothing. That is your own word. If I accused any one, it would probably be the Comte de Ribaumont. I am not his friend, but his rival.” “And you are my friend? Ah, yes; I remember. You have assured me of that. ‘Well, ‘then, why do you not accuse him if it be in your power?" “Because 1 know that he is dear to you, and I would spare you pain.” “You are indeed considerate. Yet I beg to differ from you as to the reason. You do not accuse the Comte de Rib- aumont of & crime against his country because you have no eVidence that one has been committed, and the proving of his innocence would mean your destruc- tion. Instead, you come to me, privately, beaten him at it. But the bright bubble of my elation was soon to be pricked. It burst with my enemy’'s next words. CHAPTER VIIL THE HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. “How you misjudge me!” Ipanoff de- voutly exclaimed. ‘‘Had I wished to in- Jjure instead of serving you I might have dropped a hint about you and the docu- ment to the Comte de Ribaumont when we met 'w moments ago at the door of I did not do that, however. 1 merely mentioned to him the great pleasure I had In store. At last his weapon had found a vital part. “You dared to tell him that you ‘were to meet me!" I ejaculated. “Why not? It was the truth. And I understood it to be a boast lie de Nevers that she never commits an act which she is ashamed to acknowledge before the world.” “He would not belleve you!” I cried, as mlnch to convince myself as to déty Ipan- oft. “I admit he did not take my word at first, but, naturally annoyed at being doubted, I invited Monsieur de Ribaumont to observe youy departure. If we did not speak confidentially together at your car- riage dpor he might call me a liar,” I said, “#nd I would not resent it.” “But we did not drive away together,” I persisted. . /s “No. Yet my point was proved doubly 80, indeed; for at the corner of the Rue Boulanger I happened to notice that the Comte was near, and observing that your brougham had stopped to taks me in.” “You coward!” I breathed. “On the contrary—a brave man. I Qe- Ueve that the Comte de Ribaument is a very fine shot, and also a swordsman of the first rank. But now, dear mademot- selle, I will not give you the pain of dis- missing me. I have loyally accomplished my object, for I have warned you of the danger which more than threatens you, and it is not my fault if you will not be- leve my word. Again, let me impress upon you that you are in dire danger; but you have still at least a friend who would go through fire and water to save you. And now, adieu.” This time it was he who had reduced me to speechlessness. In silence I touched the electric bell. The brougham stopped and Count Ipanoff, with a low bow, & few murmured words in French meant for the ears of the servants and an extended hand, which naturally I ignored, got out and disappeared into the night. By my orders, given through the groom, the coachman had driven In an opposite direction from the Rue d’Anjou. Now, having droppefi Count Ipanoff, he had to drive back, and 1 half dreaded, half longed, to find Maxime, waiting to re- proach me near the gate of my high- walled garden. But he was not there. No one was in sight except a girl, who stared at me from the window of & hired coupe being driven slowly through the street. She had an ugly, maliclous face, which I saw plainly for a second or two in the light of a street lamp, but as I had no recollection of ever having seen her be- fore, 1 attached no importancé to her presence, though the hour was late. I dislike being stared at on stairs or in a lift, and I had not been satisfied, after settling in Paris, until I discovered a small house In its' own grounds, which I could have entirely to myself. I had ad- vertised and finally obtained exgctly what I wanted. To be sure, the Rue d’Anjou left some- thing to be desired. It was a gloomy streét, and my house had been long unoc- cupled, owing to its evil notoriety as the scene of a murder. But the murder had happened nearly twenty years ago and I had no fear of the ghost that was popu- larly supposed to haunt the place. The necessary repairs had cost & good deal, but the result in the house and in the walled garden was most satisfactory, and never had I more reason to be thankful for my privacy than I had to-night. It was almost on the stroke of midnight when I reached home, and at 13 Noel Brent had promised to come. But the moments passed and he did not appear. “Something has happened to him,” 1 told myself; and at lasi the suspense grew so unbearable that I could not resist going to the door to watch and listen. For a few moments my sharpened ears could detect no sound in the quiet street that lay sleeping outside the high wall of my garden. Then at last the gate bell rang. I had sent Agnes te bed and only one servant, an elderly man in whose discre- tion and affection I had implicit trust, was sitting up. He had been told that I expected a visitor, and with any delay he would have been at the gate. But I could not walt, and, running down the path, I myself unlocked it “Thank heaven!” I exclaimed aloud, as the light from the distant door of the house, which I had left wide open, fall full upon the face of Noel Brent. In my rellef at seeing him, after the vague hor- rors I had feared, I forgot to lock the gate, which is always kept bolted at night, and naturally Noel did net think of ft. Old Henri, sesing that I Bad let in my midnight visitor, discreetly kept in the background, and supposing—as I learned afterward—that I had of course shot the bolt, did not go down to the gate. He returned to the servants’ room, there to nod over a story-book and walt until I should ring for him to escort the guest out. Well—well ™ I qu-fi-fi with my hand on Noel's arm as we toward the houss. “For pity’s sake, what news of the treaty? “No actual news,” he answered T went off on the wrong socent and wasted » Jot of time, and then &id what I wish I bad done at Mm detactive—as, of course, it do o 5o .to the police.” ‘“You told your story—my stery—4s & detectiver” I *“No; certainly not. I maerely descrided my thres traveling companions and asked him to find them at once, but more par- ticularly the little chap, whe is almost surely the guflty one. I simply stated that something of valus had been stolen from me, and I gave the same name which I was instructed te give at the hotel—James Guest of Birmingham. The detective held out hopes of getting hold of the men shortly, and I may even hear from him to-night. I shan't go to bed befors three or four, in the hope that he may call or send a message before that Now, don’t look 80 desperats, my poor &irl. This detective fellow Dubols seemed to think there’d be very little difficulty in tracking our man, and then, even {f he's parted with the treaty, we can sasily find out what he's done with it.” “Dubois!” I echoed. “Is your deteo- tive's name Paul Dubols, and does he live in the Rue du Capuecin Brun?” ‘Yes. Do you know him? Is he & good man?”’ “I know him, and he s econsidered extraordinarily sharp and quick, so much 80 that he has gained the nickname of the ‘Ferret.” Nevertheless, I would rather you had gone to no one at all, or to any other detective in Paris. “Why T’ demanded Noel, looking aston- fshed and uncomfortable. “What is there against him?* “There is this against him: He is & personal friend of my worst enemy, Ivan Ipanoft—the man of whom I spoke te you this evening. I have heard so from Ipan- off himself.” “Jove!” ejaculated Noel. “What an unfortunate coincidence! Yet how could 1 have dreamt of 1t7” 'You could not,” I admitted. ‘‘Nothing s your fault. All that has happened would have happened just the same if Lord Reckworth had chosen another mes- senger. It is fate, and it Is my punish- ment. ‘Even if Dubois is Ipanoff's friend,™ 1d Noel, “it {sn't likely that the Rus- sian would be fool enough to confide his designs against you to any one, no mat- ter how great the intimacy. The chances are that Dubols will know no more of this affair than a stranger—beyond what 1 have told him; and if he’s a man of henor he’s bound to do the best he can for me as his employer. Have you seen the Comte de Ribaumont?” “Yes; and he had heard nothing. But that flend Ipanoff has made mischief be- tween us.” L. And I told Noel Brent all that had passed between me and the Russian. I told him, too, how I had given the At monds so mysteriously recovered to M: ime, with the understanding that he was not to open the bag which contained them until he reached home. “If T had known he would be so late,” I sald, rather reproachfully, “I might have allowed him to come home with me for a few moments, but as it was I dared not; for Maxime’s one fault is Jealousy.” ‘I was very sorry to be late,” sai® Noel. “I—-met some friends at the hotel just as I was leaving, and was obliged to say a few words to them. Then, when I had Eot into a cab the wretched horse fell down, and I had to walk after all, as there wasn't another in sight, and—"" “Hush!” I broke in, catching him by the arm. “I heard a step outside on the gravel. I forgot to lock the gate. Did you do it “No,” he answered in a low volice. We were standing in the drawing-room, and the silk curtains were drawn across the big bow window, yet mechanically my eyes turned to it, and my heart was beating fast. ‘“What if it should be Max- ime?” 1 exclatmed. As T spoke there came a knock at the front door. Maxime’'s knock, I was cer- tain. I grew giddy, and my presence of mind deserted me, If only Noel had come when he promised by this time he would have been gone: but now I knew not what to do for the best. I had suf- fered so much that my power of prompt decision seemed dead. “It is Maxime, I know,” I whispered. “What is to be done?’ “Let him in, and tell him that I came to see you on important business from a friend in England, which could not await till to-morrow.” “I daren't. I'd forbldden him to come here. I told him T was {ll, and must go straight to bed. He saw me with Count Ipanoff, and now, if he finds you with me what will he think? Yet the door must be answered. Listen to that knock- ing! I can't send him away. Hide your- selt!—quickly, quickiy—and I'll have Henri let him in. Oh why do you delay? Go into the next room. You can get out through the window and leave the house while Maxime and I are talking.” “I'll do whkt you wish,” saild Noel. “But I beg of you take my advice, and don't attempt to decelve him. Better let me—"" 3 “Don’t stand there arguing and advis- ing!” 1 cut in, in a flerce whisper. “He's knocking again for the third time. Go— go—go!” He went without another word into my boudoir, which adjoins the drawing room. The key was In the door. I turned it in the lock, snatched 1t out, and:slipped it into my pocket. Hardly had I done so when Henri appeared at the only other door—the one leading into the entrance hall. ‘Mademolselle,” he quietly announced, “‘somebody knocks. Is it that you left the gate unlocked? And am I to admit any one?” Henrl is a well-trained, old servant, and his face was expressionless; yet I knew, as higleye moved about the drawing room, that he was surprised to find me alone. “If the person knocking is the Comte de Ribaumont you may admit him,” I sald. “And—Henri—nobody else has been here to-night since I returned from the theater.” . “Very well, mademoiselle; I quite un- derstand,” said the old man, with an im- movable countenance. I sank inte & chair and threw off the long, white-hooded wrap which I had Mi gotten to lay aside until this moment. there. Oppostte to the fauteutl into which I had thrown myself was a long mirrer reach- ing from floor to ceiling. I glanced across at it, fearfuly anxious to ses if m¥ hc-d would bear Maxime's searching gase: &n as I studied my own reflection Maxime's tmage appeared behind it, pale and stern. Our eyes met In the glass, and never h. his been so cold to me. My only hope with him was to take the initiative and steal his weapons. “I know why you have come” I sald. “Ipanoff told me what he had sald te you.” “You admit then? asked Maxime. He crossed the ,:v:aom and stood in front of me, his arms folded. He was handsomer than he had ever been, and I adored him. Something inside of me seemed to keep whispering: *He te yours to-night. Make the most of your hour, for to-morrow comes—the deluge.” L “Did you expect me to lie to you torted, bravely, looking him straight in you. It is death to lose It “It is an insult to me that yeu should from him as my right hates me now far more than he ever loved me, and a nature like his will stoop ts the lowest depths of infamy for revenge. He has seen that we care for sach other, and he would part us if he could L 3041 4 3 e < 13 1] § iR I & L3 L] g g i 4 g.. : Eg 3 [ 4 H & é ere I told him he lied, and that I would not even watch you the theater, as he suggested. Even to do that would be weakness and lack of faith, I assured myself. And yet, when the time came, I ocould not resist. I would have staked my life that, if he tried to speak with you as you were going to your car- i L him that I finally waited to ses you come out. I could hardly credit the evidence of my own eyes when I saw you whisper- ing with him, apparently making an ap- pointment, and by that time I was half mad. I followed your carriage. I saw it stop. 1 saw you take Ipanoff in beside you—Ipanoff, after putting me off with a plea of {liness, despite my love and lons- ing. I saw you drive, not toward the Rue d"Anjou, but away from it. I know not what terrible thoughts did battle in my brain. I hailed a cab. and told the man I would pay Rim well to keep your brougham in sight. But, after all, I lost it, and followed another by mistake, only learning that I was wrong when It stopped and a strange man and woman got out. Then I came here. Now I have confessed all my doubts. Teil me, wi your dear voice and true eyes, that th have wronged you, and make me believe in your love and loyaity to me again if you can.” I tried to laugh, but the effort was not ““You have It faith in your- I said, “if you for a man Ifke Ivan Ipanoff.”” “Who can tell what a woman loves In & man? Explain yourself to me, Jullette Don’t palter.” “Ipanoff pretended that he knew a ter- rible secret concerning you,” I said as steadily as I could. “I feared that in some strange way he had heard about— the necklace. He vowed that he would tell me all, and help me to save you from ruin if I would let him drive with me to- night for half an Lour in my brougham. He sald this in & letter which was handed %o me by th ge doorkeeper just after I parted with you. If it had not been for the necklace I would have refused; but I felt that I must find out if he really knew anything. It was all for you, Max —all for you. Now do you belleve me?” “IJ—think that I belleve you,” he sald, slowly. “And yet—and yet—" “Is there an ‘and yet?” Don't you sed the plot? The man was playing us off, one against the other. He boasted te yo and, in order to keep his boast, he tricwed me; for in reality he knew nothing. I soon discovered that, and sent him adrift. When I had got rid of him I drove home alone.” “You drove home alone?™ ech ime, with an expression growing his great dark eyes that frightened me. Ine stinctively I felt that he suspected some= thing, and would catch me tripping—that, inadvertently, I had given him & new hook on which to hang his jealous sus- piclon. My heart began to knock sicken- ingly against my side. So far thers had been enough of truth in my story to keep my conscience comparatively clear and to enable my manner to be convincing. I could not ses how I had tripped any- where, yet that awful look In the eyes I loved made of me a coward, and turned my* blood to water. Oh, to sob out all the truth on his breast, and beg forgiveness, whatever happened, because it had been for his sake! Yet I knew that the depth of his great love were not dear emough to hold pardon for such a sin as that. To keep him I must keep my seciat, if elther could be kept. “I drove home alone,” I repeated, thankful that it was the truih. “Neither Ipanoff nor any other man with you?" No man at all,” I answersd, emphati- cally. My training as an actress stood me in good stead now; yet how soon If would cease to bear me up I Knew not. The nerves of my face were quivering. I prayed that Maxime did not see. “You mean to tell me that no man has been with you to-night?” A purplish haze rose befors my strained eyes and floated like a vell of gauze be- tween me and him. “You are here,” I sald, smiling stifly, “Ah! Is that your answer, Jullette? Am I the only one?” “Why do you ask me a question that— that in itself spoken as you speak, is an insult?” “It s not an insult. I have & right te k it. Presently I will tell you why. But first answer me."” T have answered. What do you want more? Maxime, I don't know you to- night, and I am {ll. Do you want me to suffer’ I was good to you, too. - But, perhaps, you don't know yet. Have you opened the little silk bag that I gave you at the theater?” “No; I promised _you I would not, until I reached home. Ishaven't thought of it from that minute to this. How could I? Juliette, answer me. Do not try to put me off. I have not come here in & mood for trifling.” “I teil you I have answered. Thers is no one here but you. Is not that enough for you?’ I let my voice rise to hysteri- cal sharpness now, and I did not ty to keep back the tears, for I wanted to bring w: him to my feet in repenta And I hoped that I might stfil be & the truth. I had heard no sound tom the next room, but it might well be hat Noel Brent had found his way out and was gone. “No, it Is not enough” Maxime an- swered. “There ls something you must make clear to me first before I go on my knees to you, as I hope to do in & mo- ment more. If you came home alone, anc