began to speak again.

It was all apparently very innocent talk. He informed his "dear
Rita" that he was really on his way to Monte Carlo. A lifelong

habit of his at this time of the year; but he was ready to run back
to Paris if he could do anything for his "chere enfant," run back

for a day, for two days, for three days, for any time; miss Monte
Carlo this year altogether, if he could be of the slightest use and

save her going herself. For instance he could see to it that
proper watch was kept over the Pavilion stuffed with all these art

treasures. What was going to happen to all those things? . . .
Making herself heard for the first time Dona Rita murmured without

moving that she had made arrangements with the police to have it
properly watched. And I was enchanted by the almost imperceptible

play of her lips.
But the anxious creature was not reassured. He pointed out that

things had been stolen out of the Louvre, which was, he dared say,
even better watched. And there was that marvellous cabinet on the

landing, black lacquer with silver herons, which alone would repay
a couple of burglars. A wheelbarrow, some old sacking, and they

could trundle it off under people's noses.
"Have you thought it all out?" she asked in a cold whisper, while

we three sat smoking to give ourselves a countenance (it was
certainly no enjoyment) and wondering what we would hear next.

No, he had not. But he confessed that for years and years he had
been in love with that cabinet. And anyhow what was going to

happen to the things? The world was greatly exercised by that
problem. He turned slightly his beautifully groomed white head so

as to address Mr. Blunt directly.
"I had the pleasure of meeting your mother lately."

Mr. Blunt took his time to raise his eyebrows and flash his teeth
at him before he dropped negligently, "I can't imagine where you

could have met my mother."
"Why, at Bing's, the curio-dealer," said the other with an air of

the heaviest possible stupidity. And yet there was something in
these few words which seemed to imply that if Mr. Blunt was looking

for trouble he would certainly get it. "Bing was bowing her out of
his shop, but he was so angry about something that he was quite

rude even to me afterwards. I don't think it's very good for
Madame votre mere to quarrel with Bing. He is a Parisian

personality. He's quite a power in his sphere. All these fellows'
nerves are upset from worry as to what will happen to the Allegre

collection. And no wonder they are nervous. A big art event hangs
on your lips, my dear, great Rita. And by the way, you too ought

to remember that it isn't wise to quarrel with people. What have
you done to that poor Azzolati? Did you really tell him to get out

and never come near you again, or something awful like that? I
don't doubt that he was of use to you or to your king. A man who

gets invitations to shoot with the President at Rambouillet! I saw
him only the other evening; I heard he had been winning immensely

at cards; but he looked perfectlywretched, the poor fellow. He
complained of your conduct - oh, very much! He told me you had

been perfectlybrutal with him. He said to me: 'I am no good for
anything, mon cher. The other day at Rambouillet, whenever I had a

hare at the end of my gun I would think of her cruel words and my
eyes would run full of tears. I missed every shot' . . . You are

not fit for diplomatic work, you know, ma chere. You are a mere
child at it. When you want a middle-aged gentleman to do anything

for you, you don't begin by reducing him to tears. I should have
thought any woman would have known that much. A nun would have

known that much. What do you say? Shall I run back to Paris and
make it up for you with Azzolati?"

He waited for her answer. The compression of his thin lips was
full of significance. I was surprised to see our hostess shake her

head negatively the least bit, for indeed by her pose, by the
thoughtful immobility of her face she seemed to be a thousand miles

away from us all, lost in an infinite reverie.
He gave it up. "Well, I must be off. The express for Nice passes

at four o'clock. I will be away about three weeks and then you
shall see me again. Unless I strike a run of bad luck and get

cleaned out, in which case you shall see me before then."
He turned to Mills suddenly.

"Will your cousin come south this year, to that beautiful villa of
his at Cannes?"

Mills hardly deigned to answer that he didn't know anything about
his cousin's movements.

"A grand seigneur combined with a great connoisseur," opined the
other heavily. His mouth had gone slack and he looked a perfect

and grotesque imbecile under his wig-like crop of white hair.
Positively I thought he would begin to slobber. But he attacked

Blunt next.
"Are you on your way down, too? A little flutter. . . It seems to

me you haven't been seen in your usual Paris haunts of late. Where
have you been all this time?"

"Don't you know where I have been?" said Mr. Blunt with great
precision.

"No, I only ferret out things that may be of some use to me," was
the unexpected reply, uttered with an air of perfect vacancy and

swallowed by Mr. Blunt in blank silence.
At last he made ready to rise from the table. "Think over what I

have said, my dear Rita."
"It's all over and done with," was Dona Rita's answer, in a louder

tone than I had ever heard her use before. It thrilled me while
she continued: "I mean, this thinking." She was back from the

remoteness of her meditation, very much so indeed. She rose and
moved away from the table, inviting by a sign the other to follow

her; which he did at once, yet slowly and as it were warily.
It was a conference in the recess of a window. We three remained

seated round the table from which the dark maid was removing the
cups and the plates with brusque movements. I gazed frankly at

Dona Rita's profile, irregular, animated, and fascinating in an
undefinable way, at her well-shaped head with the hair twisted high

up and apparently held in its place by a gold arrow with a jewelled
shaft. We couldn't hear what she said, but the movement of her

lips and the play of her features were full of charm, full of
interest, expressing both audacity and gentleness. She spoke with

fire without raising her voice. The man listened round-shouldered,
but seeming much too stupid to understand. I could see now and

then that he was speaking, but he was inaudible. At one moment
Dona Rita turned her head to the room and called out to the maid,

"Give me my hand-bag off the sofa."
At this the other was heard plainly, "No, no," and then a little

lower, "You have no tact, Rita. . . ." Then came her argument in a
low, penetrating voice which I caught, "Why not? Between such old

friends." However, she waved away the hand-bag, he calmed down,
and their voices sank again. Presently I saw him raise her hand to

his lips, while with her back to the room she continued to
contemplate out of the window the bare and untidy garden. At last

he went out of the room, throwing to the table an airy "Bonjour,
bonjour," which was not acknowledged by any of us three.

CHAPTER III
Mills got up and approached the figure at the window. To my

extreme surprise, Mr. Blunt, after a moment of obviously painful
hesitation, hastened out after the man with the white hair.

In consequence of these movements I was left to myself and I began
to be uncomfortably conscious of it when Dona Rita, near the

window, addressed me in a raised voice.
"We have no confidences to exchange, Mr. Mills and I."

I took this for an encouragement to join them. They were both