Chapter 7 The Countess de Santiago You don't wish to tell me the name, Ruthmansworth was saying? The repetition irritated the girl, whose nerves were strained to snapping point. She could not parry the man's questions, she could not bear his grieved or offended reproaches. If he persisted through these moments of suspense, she would scream or burst out crying. Trambling, with tears in her voice, she heard herself answer. And yet it did not seem to be herself, but something within, stronger than she, that suddenly took control of her. Why should I not wish to tell you, the something was saying? The name is the same as your own, Smith, Nelson Smith. And before the word had left her lips, a taxi drew up at the door. There was one instant of agony during which the previous suspense seemed nothing, an instant when the girl forgot what she had said, her soul pressing to the windows of her eyes. Was it he who had come, or it was he? Before she had time to finish the thought, he walked in, confident and smiling as when she had left him a few minutes, or a few years ago. And in the wave of relief which overwhelmed her, Annaslee forgot Ruthmansworth's question and her answer. She remembered again, only with the shock of hearing him address the newcomer by the name she had given. I hear from Miss Grail that we are namesakes, Mr. Ruthmansworth said, as Nelson Smith sprang in and took the girl's bag from her ice-cold hand. I… he asked me, I told him, Annaslee stammered, her eyes appealing, seeking to explain and begging pardon. But if… quite right, why not tell? He answered instantly, his first glance of surprise turning to cheerful reassurance. Now Mrs. Asworth is eliminated, I am no longer a secret. And I expect you'll like to meet Mr. Ruthmansmith again when you have a house to entertain him in. So speaking, he offered his hand with a smile to his namesake, and Annaslee realized from the outsider's point of view the peculiar attraction of the man. Ruthmansmith felt it as she had felt it, though differently and in a lesser degree. Not only did he shake hands but actually came out to the taxi with them, asking Annaslee if he should tell his cousins of her engagement, or if she preferred to give the news herself. It flashed into the girl's mind that it would be perfect if she could be married to her knight by Archdeacon Smith, but she had been imprudent too often already. She dared not make such a suggestion without consulting the other person most concerned, so she answered that she would ride Mrs. Smith or see her. To say that you, too, are going to be Mrs. Smith, shackled the Archdeacon's cousin in his driveway, which made him seem even older than he was. Well, you can trust me with Mrs. Elworth. If she goes on as she began tonight, I'm afraid I shall have to follow your example. Fold my tent like an Arab and silently steal away.  I'll remind her of it, if you like. After her you ask me. It may help with a trousseau. Thank you, but my wife won't need to remind Mrs. Elworth of her debt. The answer came before Annaslee could speak. And she will be my wife in a day or two at latest. Good night! Glad to have met you, even if it was an unpromising introduction. Then they were off, they, too, alone together, and Annaslee guessed that the chauffeur must have had his instructions where to drive, as she heard none given. Perhaps it was best that their destination should not be published aloud, for there are walls which have ears. It occurred to the girl that precautions might still have to be taken, but in another moment she was undeceived. I thought Old Ruthwyn Smith would be shocked if he knew the safe refuge I have for you is no more convent-like than the Savoy Hotel, her companion loved. Bye, Joff, neither you nor I dreamed when we got out of the last taxi that we should soon be in another, going back to the place we started from. The Savoy! exclaimed Annaslee. Oh, but we mustn't go there of all places, those men! I assure you it's safer now than anywhere in London, the man cut her short. I can't explain why. That is, I could explain if I cared to rig up a story. But there's something about you makes me feel as if I'd like to tell you the truth whenever I can, and the truth is that for reasons you may understand some day, though I hope to heaven you'll never have to. My association with those men is one of the things I long to turn the key upon. I know that that sounds like Bluebird to Fatima, but it isn't as bad as that. To me it doesn't seem bad at all, and I swear that whatever mystery, if you call it mystery, there is about me, it shall hurt you. Will you believe this, and trust me for the rest? I've told you I would. The girl reminded him. I know, but things were different then, not so serious. They hadn't gone so far. I didn't suppose that fate would give you to me so soon. I didn't dare hope it, I... Are you sure you want me? Annaslee faltered. Sure, than I've ever been of anything in my life before. It's only of you I'm thinking. I wanted to arrange my business matters so as to be fair to you, but you'll make the best of things. You are being noble to me, said the girl, and I've been very foolish. I've complicated everything, first by what I told Mr. Ruthman Smith about us, and then saying your name was Nelson Smith. You weren't foolish, he contradicted. You were only playing into fate's hands. You couldn't help yourself, destiny. And all's for the best. You were an angel to sacrifice yourself to save me, and you're doing it the way you did has made me a happy man at one stroke. As for the name, what's in the name? We might as well be in reality what we played at being tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith. There are even reasons why I'm pleased that you've made me a present of the name. I thank you for it, and for all the rest. Oh, but if it isn't really your name, we shan't be legally married, shall we? Annously protested. Pied off, he exclaimed. I hadn't thought of that. It's a difficulty, but we'll obviate it somehow. Don't worry. Only I'm afraid we can't ask your friend the Archdeac in Jumeria's, as I meant to suggest, because I was sure he'd like it. I should, but it doesn't matter, said the girl. Besides, I feel that tomorrow I shall find I've dreamed all this. Then I've dreamed you, at the same time. And I'm not going to let you slip out of my dream, now I've got you in it.  Afterward there came a time when Annously called back those words, and wondered if they had held a deeper meaning than she guessed. But having uttered them, he seemed to put the thought out of his mind and turn to the next. About the Savoy, he went on. I want to take it there, because I know a woman staying in the hotel, a woman old enough to be your mother, who'll look after you to please me till we're married. Afterward you'll be nice to her, and that will be doing her a good turn, because she's apt to be lonesome in London. She's the widow of the Spanish Count, and has lived in the Argentine. But I met her in New York. She knows all about me, or enough, and if she'd been in the restaurant at dinner this evening she could have done for me what you did. I had reason to think she would be there when I bolted in to get out of a fix. But she was missing. Are you sorry? If she'd been there you would have gone to her table and sat down, and we should never have met. Anasley thought aloud, how strange. Just that little thing, your friend being out to dinner, and our whole lives are to be changed. Oh, you must be sorry.  But you haven't answered my question. I'll answer it now, cried the girl.   Saint George, he echoed, a ring of bitterness under his love. That's the first time I've been called a saint, and I'm afraid it will be the last. I can't live up to that. But if I can give you a happy life and a few of the beautiful things you deserve, why, it's something. Besides, I'm going to worship my princess. I'd give anything to show you how I... But no, I was good before when I was tempted to kiss you. You're at my mercy now, in a way, all the more because I'm taking you from your old existence to one you don't know.  Meantime, I'll try to grow a bit more like what your lover ought to be, and later I shall kiss you enough to make up for lost time. If five hours ago, anyone had told Anasly Grail that she would wish to have a strange man take her in her arms and kiss her, she would have felt insulted. Yet so it was. She was sorry that he was so scrupulous. She longed to have him hold her against his heart. The thought thrilled her like an electric shock, a thousand times more powerful than the tingling which had flashed up her arm at the first touch of his hand, though even that had seemed terrifying then. But she sat still in her corner of the taxi and gave him no answer, lest she should betray herself. Her silence after the warmth of his words seemed cold. Perhaps he felt it so, for he went on after an instance pause as if he had waited for something in vain, and his tone was changed, Anasly thought it by contrast almost business-like. You mustn't be afraid, he said, that I mean to stay at the Savoy myself. Even if I'd been stopping there I should move if I were going to put you in the hotel. But I have my own lair in London. I've been over here a number of times, indeed I'm partly English, born in Canada, though I've spent most of my life in the United States. Nobody at the Savoy but the Countess of Santiago knows who I am, and she'll understand that it may be convenient for me to change my name. Nelson Smith is a respectable one, and she will respect it. Now my plan is to ask for her, she'll be in by this time, have a few words of explanation on the quiet, not to embarrass you, and the Countess will do the rest. She'll engage a room for you next to her own suit, or as near as possible, then you'll be provided with a chaperone. I'm not anxious about myself, but about you, Anasly said. You haven't told me yet what happened after you went upstairs at Mrs. Ellsworth's, and how you knew those men were gone. I suppose you did know, or did you chance it? I was as sure as I needed to be, Nelson Smith answered. A moment after I switched on the electricity in the room up there, I heard a taxi drive away. I turned off the light so I could look out. By flattening my nose against the glass, I could see that the place where those jabs had waited was empty. But in case the taxi was only turning and meant to pass the house again, I lit the room once more, for realism. That's what kept me rather long, that and waiting for the dragon to go. Otherwise I should have been down before Ruthman Smith trapped me. For a second it looked as if the game of life was up, and then I found out how much you meant to me. It was you I thought of. It seemed beastly hard luck to leave you fast in that old woman's clutches. The taxi put out her harm with a warm impulse. He took it, raising it to his lips, and both were startled when the taxi stopped. They had arrived at the Savoy, and though Anna's days seemed to have lived through a lifetime of emotion, just one hour and thirty minutes had passed since she and her companion drove away from these bright, revolving doors. The foyer was brilliant and crowded as when they left at half past ten. People were parting after supper, or they were lingering in the restaurant beyond. Nobody paid the slightest attention to the newcomers, and honestly settled down unobtrusively in a corner, while her companion went to scribble a line to the Contesta Santiago. When we had finished and sent up the letter, he did not return. And again the girl had a few moments of suspense, thinking of the danger which might not after all be over. Just as she had begun to be anxious, however, she saw him coming, with a wonderful woman. Anna Slay could have loved, remembering how he had said the Countess would mother her. Anyone less motherly than this Juneal-like beauty in flame-colored chiffon over gold tissue, it would be hard to imagine. The Spanish South American Countess was of a camellia paleness, and had almond-shaped dark eyes with brooding lashes and a slender brows that met. In contrast, her hair was of a flame-colored vivid as her draperies, and her lips were red. At first glance, Anna Slay thought that the dazzling creature could not be more than thirty. But when the vision had come near enough to offer her hand, without waiting for an introduction, a hardness about the handsome face, a few lines about the eyes and mouth, and a fullness of the chin showed that she was older, forty perhaps. Still Anna Slay hoped that her lover had not asked the lady to mother his fiancée. She had not the air of one who would be complemented by such a request. As Anna Slay put her hand into that of the Countess, she noticed that this hand was as wonderful as the rest of the woman's personality. It was very long, very narrow, with curiously supple-looking fingers exquisitely manicured and wearing many rings. Even the thumb was abnormally long, which fact prevented the hand from being as beautiful as it was, somehow unforgettable. This is a pleasure and a surprise, began the Countess, smiling. Her eyes appearing to take in the full-length portrait of Anna Slay grailed with her white, unmoving gaze. When she smiled she was still extremely handsome, but not so perfect as with the lips closed, for her white teeth were too short, somewhat irregular, and set too wide apart. She spoke English perfectly, with a slight foreign accent, and a roll of the letter R. My friend, Nelson Smith, she turned laughing to him, has told me exciting news. We have known each other a long time. I think this is the best thing that can happen, and you will be a lucky girl. He too will be lucky. I see that, with another smile. Anna Slay was disappointed because the beautiful woman's voice was not sweet. Now you must engage her room, Nelson Smith said, appropriately. It's late. You can make friends afterwards. Very well, the Countess agreed. And you? Will you come to the desk? Yet no, it is better not. Miss Grail and I will go together, two women alone and independent. Lucky it's not the season, or we might find nothing free at short notice. But then, I mean Nelson, always did have luck. I hope he always will. She flushed him a meaning look, though what the meaning was Anna Slay could not guess. She knew only that she did not like the Countess as she had wished to like her lover's friend. There was something secret in the dark eyes, something repellent about the long slender thumb with its glittering nail. CHAPTER VIII. THE BLUE DIMON DURING. Anna Slay had not expected to sleep. There were a million things to think of, and it was one o'clock before she was ready to slip into bed in the green and white room with its bathroom annex. But the crowding experience of five hours had exhausted the girl. Sleep fell upon her as her head nestled into a downy pillow, and she lay motionless as a marble figure on a tomb until a sound of knocking forced itself into her dreams. She woke with a start. The curtains were drawn across the window, but she could see that it was daylight. A streak of sunshine thrust a golden wedge between the draperies and seemed a good omen, for the sun had hidden from London through many wintery weeks. The knocking was real, not part of a dream. It was at her door, and jumping out of bed she could hardly believe a clock on the mantelpiece which set half past ten. "'Who is it?' she asked timidly, fearing that the Countess to Santiago's voice might answer, but a man replied, "'A note from a gentleman downstairs, please, and he's waiting an answer.' Annously opened the door crack, and took in a letter. The new master of her destiny had written, "'Hurrah, my darling, our affairs march! I have been arranging about the license, et cetera, and I believe that you and I can join forces for the rest of our lives tomorrow, blessed day. How soon can you come down and talk over plans? I have a hundred to propose. Will you breakfast with me, or have you finished? For since last night till eternal night, N.S.' The girl scribbled an answer, confessing that she had overslept, but promising to be down in half an hour for breakfast. She did not stop to think of anything but the need for a quick reply, yet when the note was sent and she was doing her hair after a splash in the porcelain bath, what a luxury for the girl who had been practically a servant she reread her love-letter spread on the dressing-table. She liked her lover's handwriting. It seemed to express character, just such a character as she imagined her knights to be. There were dash and determination and an originality which would never let itself be bound by convention. Perhaps if she had been critical, if the handwriting had been that of a stranger, she might have thought it too bold. Long ago, when she was a very young girl, she had superficially studied the science of chirography from articles in a magazine, and had fancied herself a judge. She remembered disliking Mrs. Ellsworth's writing the first time she saw it, for seeing the selfishness which afterward enslaved her. Since then she had had little time to practice until the day when she heard from Mr. N. Smith after her answer to his advertisement in the morning post. One reason for feeling sure she could never care for the man was because his handwriting prejudiced her in advance. It was so stiff, so devoid of character. How different she reflected now from the writing of the man who had taken his place. She made such haste in dressing that her fingers seemed to be all thumbs, and when at length she was ready she gazed gloomily into the mirror. Last night she had not been so bad in evening dress, but now in the cheap, ready-made brown velveteen coat and skirt and plain toque to match, which had been her best for two winters she feared lest he should find her commonplace. The first thing I do when he's had time to look me over must be to tell him he's free if he wants his freedom, she decided, and she kept her word when in the half-deserted foyer she had shaken hands with a young man who wore white rose in his buttonhole. Please tell me frankly if you don't like me as well by daylight, she gasped.  See, I've adopted it as your symbol. I shall never wear any other flower on my coat. This is yours. No, it's you, and I've kept the one I took last night. I mean to keep it always. No danger of mine changing my mind. But you, I've lain awake worrying for fear you might. He held her hand, questioning her eyes with his. She shook her head, smiling, but he would not let the hand go. At that hour there was no one to stare. The countess didn't warn you off me? Anisley opened her eyes. Of course not. Why, you told me you were old friends. So we are, as friends go in this world, pals anyhow. She's done me several good turns and I've paid her. She'd always do what she could to help, for her own sake as well as mine. But her idea of a man may be different from yours. She wasn't with me long, explained Anisley. She said I needed sleep. After she'd looked at my room to see if it were comfortable, she'd add me good night and we haven't met this morning. The few remarks she did make about you were complementary. What did she say? I'm curious. Well, if you must know, she said that you were a man few women could resist, and she didn't blame me. Hmm, you called that complementary? Let's suppose she meant it so. Now we'll have breakfast and forget her, unless you'd like her called to go with us on a shopping expedition I've set my heart on. What kind of a shopping expedition, Anisley wanted to know? To buy you all the pretty things you've ever wished for. The girl laughed. To do that would cost a fortune. Then we'll spend a fortune. Shall you and I do it ourselves, or would you like to have the Countess de Santiago's taste?  We'll have a great day spending that fortune. The next thing we do—it can wait till after we're married—is to look for a house in a good neighborhood, to rent furnished. But we'll get your swell cousins, Lord and Lady Anisley Seton, to help us choose. Perhaps there'll be something near them. Why, they hardly know I exist. I doubt if Lady Anisley Seton does know, replied the girl, they'll do nothing to help us, I'm sure. Then don't be sure, because if you made a bet you'd lose. Take my word they'll be pleased to remember a cousin who is marrying a millionaire. Good gracious, gaspanisley, are you a millionaire? Her lover laughed. Well, I don't want to boast to you, though I may to your cousins. But if I'm not one of your conventional stodgy millionaires, I have a sort of Fortunatus purse which is never empty. I can always pull out whatever I want. We'll let your people understand without any bragging. I think Lady Anisley Seton, Niae and Miss Haverstahl, whose father's purse is flattened out like a pen-cake, will jump for joy when she hears what she want her to do. But come along, let's have breakfast. Overwhelmed, Anisley walked beside him in silence to the almost deserted restaurant where the latest breakfasters had finished and the earliest lunchers had not begun. So the mysterious Mr. Smith was rich. The news frightened rather than pleased her. It seemed to throw a burden upon her shoulders which she might not be able to carry with grace. The girl had little self-confidence, but the man appeared to be troubled with no doubts of her or of the future. Over their coffee and toast and hot-house fruit he began to propose exciting plans, and had got as far as an automobile when the voice of the Countess surprised them. She had come close to their table without being heard. "'Good morning,' she exclaimed, "'I was going out. But from far off I saw you to, with your profiles cut like silhouettes against all this glass and sunshine. I couldn't resist asking how Miss Grail slept, and if there's anything I can do for her in the shops.' As she spoke, her eyes dwelt on Anisley's plain-toke and old-fashioned shabby coat, as if to emphasize the word shops. The girl flushed and Smith frowned at the Countess. "'No, thank you,' he replied for Anisley, "'there's nothing we need trouble you about till the wedding to-morrow afternoon. You can put on your gladdest rags then and be one of our witnesses. I believe that's the legal term, isn't it?' "'I do not know,' said the Countess, with a suppressed quiver in her voice, and a flash in the eyes fixed studiously on the river. I know nothing of marriages in England. Who will be your other witness if it's not indiscreet to ask?' "'I haven't decided yet,' returned Smith, laconically. "'Ah, of course. You have plenty of friends to choose from, and so the wedding will be to-morrow?' "'Yes, one fixes up these things next to no time with a special license. Luckily I'm a British subject. I never thought much about it before, but it simplifies matters, and I've been living in this parish a fortnight to-morrow. That's providential, for it seems that legally it must be a fortnight. I've been up since it was light, learning the ropes and beginning to work them, even the hours fixed, two-thirty.' This was news for Anisley also, as there had been no time to begin talking over the hundred plans Smith had mentioned in his letter. "'You are prompt and business-like,' returned the Countess, and again the girl blushed. She did not like to think of her night of romance being business-like in his haste to make her his wife. But perhaps the Countess didn't mean to suggest anything uncomplimentary. At what shirts will the ceremony take place, as the newspapers say?' She went on. "'It is to be a fashionable one?' "'No,' replied Smith shortly. "'Weddings and fashionable churches are silly unless there's to be a crowd, and my wife and I are going to collect our circle after we're married. "'I'll let you know in time where we're going. As you'll be with the bride, you can't lose yourself on the way, so you needn't worry.' "'I don't,' laughed the Countess, "'I match your service, and I shall try to be worthy of the occasion. But now I shall take myself off, or your coffee will be cold. You have a busy day and it's late, even later than our breakfast on the monarchic three weeks ago. Already it seems three months. Au revoir, Don. Au revoir, Miss Grail.' She finished with a nod for Anasly and turned away. Smith let her go in silence, and the girl watched the tall figure, as perfect in shape and as perfectly dressed as a French model, walk out of the restaurant into the foyer. She seemed to have taken with her the golden glamour which had made up for lack of sunshine in the room before her arrival, or if she had not taken it, at least it was dimmed. Anasly gazed after the figure until it disappeared, as she felt vaguely that it would be best not to look at her companion just then. She knew that he was angry and that he wanted to compose himself. The Countess was as handsome by morning light in her black velvet and chinchilla as at night in flame colour and gold. But the girl hoped she was not ill-natured. She looked maritricious. If she were made up, the process defied Anasly Grail's eyes. Yet surely never was skin so flawlessly white, and such golden red hair with dark eyes and eyebrows must be unique. Great Scott! I thought she meant to spend the morning with us, Smith brook out viciously. I realize now I've seen you together that she's not the ideal chaperone, but any port in a storm. I thought you liked her, Anasly said. So I do within limits. At least I appreciate the qualities that she has. But there are times when a little of her goes a long way. I'm afraid she realized that she weren't making her welcome, Anasly smiled. You weren't very nice to her, were you? I was as nice as she deserved, the man excused himself. But she was good to me last night. She owes it to me to be good. It's a debt I expect her to pay, that's all, and I'm not sure she's paying it generously. You needn't be too grateful, dear. Perhaps as she's known you some time she feels you're sacrificing yourself, Anasly defended the Countess. I don't blame her. She's sharp enough to see that I'm in great luck, said Smith. But I suppose there's always a dash of the cat in a woman of her race. I hope there's no need to tell you that she has no right to be jealous. If she had, I wouldn't have put you within reach of her claws. There are assorted sizes and kinds of jealousy, though. Some women want all the limelight and grudge sparing any for a younger and prettier girl. Anasly laughed. Prettier? Why, she's a beauty, and I—wait till I introduce you to Mrs. Nelson Smith, who's going to be one of the best-dressed, best-looking young women in London, and you'll be sorry for the poor old Countess, returned Smith, warmly. You can afford, then, to heap coals of fire on her head, which can't make it redder than it is. Meanwhile it occurs to me, from the way the wind blows, that you'd better go carefully with the lady. Don't let her pump you about yourself, or what happened at Mrs. Ellsworth's. It's not her business. Don't confide any more than you need, and if she pretends to confide in you understand that it will be for a purpose. The Countess is no ingenue. But enough about her, he went on abruptly. She shan't spoil our first breakfast together. Even by reminding me of gloomy meals I used sometimes to eat with her when we happened to find ourselves in each other's society on board the monarchic. I was feeling down on my luck then, and she wasn't the one to cheer me up. But things are different now. Have you noticed, by the way, that she has a nickname for me? Yes, anisly admitted. She calls you Don. It's a name she made up because she used to say, when we first met, I was like a Spaniard, and I can jabber Spanish among other lingos. It's more her native tongue, you know, than English. I only refer to it because I want you to have a special name of your own for me, and I don't want it to be that one. It can't be Nelson, because—well, I can never be at home as Nelson with the girl I love best. The one who knows how I came to call myself that. Will you make up a name for me and begin to get used to it today? I'd like it, if you could.  Anisly asked, shyly. I've named you my Knight already in my mind and heart. He looked at her with rather a beautiful look, clear and wistful, even remorseful. It's too noble a name, he said. Still, if you like it, I shall. Maybe it will make me good. Jove, it would take something strong to do that, but who knows? From now on I'm your Knight. You needn't wrestle with Nelson except when we're with strangers. And look here, he broke off, I've another favor to ask. Better get them all over at once. The big ones are hard to grant. You reminded me last night that we wouldn't be legally married if I didn't use my own name. That may be true. I can't very well make inquiries, but just in case I'm giving my real name and shall sign it in a register. That's why our marriage must be quietly performed in a quiet place. It shall be in a church, because I know you wouldn't feel married if it wasn't. But it must be in a church where nobody were likely to meet ever goes, and the parson must be one we won't stand a chance of knocking up against later. Managed the way I shall manage it there'll be no difficulty. Mr. and Mrs. Blank will walk out of the vestry after they've signed their names, and lose themselves. No reason why they should ever be associated with Mr. and Mrs. Alson Smith. Do you mind all these complications? Not if they're necessary to save you from danger, the girl answered.  But I haven't come to the big favor yet. Now for it. When I write my real name in the register, I don't want you to look. Is that the one thing too much? Annously tried not to flinch under his eyes. Yet he had put her to a severe test. Last night, when he said that it would be better for her not to know his name, she had quietly agreed. But there was the widest difference between then and now. At that time they had been strangers, flung together by a wave of fate, which, it seemed, might tear them apart at any instant. In a few hours all was changed. They belonged to each other. This man's name would be her own, yet he wished her to be ignorant of it. If the girl had not thought of him truly as her knight, if she had not been determined to trust him, the big favor would indeed have been too big. Despite her trust and the romantic newborn love in her heart, she was unable to answer for a moment. Her breath was snatched away, but as she struggled to regain it and speak, a bleak picture of the future without him rose before her eyes. She couldn't give him up and go on living after the glimpse he had shown her of what life might be. No, it's not too much, she said, slowly. It's only part of the trust I've promised to my knight. He gave a sigh of relief. Thank you, and my lucky star for the prize you are, he exclaimed. Some men would have offered their thanks to God or to Heaven. Anisly noticed that he praised his star. This was one of many disquieting things, large and small, for she had been brought up to be a religious girl and was mentally on her knees before God in gratitude for the happiness which illuminated her gray life. She could not bear to think that God was nothing to the man who had become everything to her.  For instance, there was the Countess de Santiago's reference to their association on board the monarchic, which Knight had refrained for mentioning. He had spoken of it after the Countess had gone, to be sure, but briefly, and because it would have seemed odd if he had not done so. It had struck Anisly that his annoyance with the lady was connected with that sharp little dig of hers, and she could not sweep her mind of curiosity. The moment the monarchic's name was brought up, she remembered reading a newspaper paragraph about the last voyage of that great ship from New York to Liverpool. Fortunately, or unfortunately, her recollection of the paragraph was nebulous, for when she read news allowed to her mistress she permitted her mind to wander, unless the subject happened to be interesting. She tried to keep up a vaguely intelligent knowledge of world politics, but small events and blatant sensations such as murders, burglaries, and society divorces she quickly erased from her brain. Something dramatic had occurred on the monarchic. Her subconscious self recalled that, but it was less than a month ago that she had read the paragraph, therefore the sensation, whatever it was, must have happened when Knight and the Countess de Santiago were on board, coming to England, and she could easily learn what it was by inquiring. Not for the world, however, would she question her lover, to whom the subject of the trip was evidently distasteful. Still less would she ask the Countess behind his back. There was another way in which she could find out a sly voice seemed to whisper an anus lisiere. She could get old numbers of the morning post, the only newspaper that entered Mrs. Ellsworth's house, and search for the paragraph. But she was ashamed of herself for letting such a thought enter her head. Of course she would not be guilty of a trick so mean. She would not try to unearth one fact concerning her night, his name, his past, or any circumstances surrounding him, even though by stretching out her hand she could reach the key to his secret. He talked of things which at another time would have palpitated with interest, their wedding, their honeymoon, their homecoming, and anusly responded without betraying absent-mindedness. It was the best she could do until the effect of the biggest favor and the doubts it raised were blurred by new sensations. She would not have been a normal woman if the shopping excursion planned by night had not swept her off her feet. The man with Fortunatis' purse seemed bent on trying to empty it, temporarily for her benefit. If she had been sent out alone by everything she had ever wanted, with no regard to expense, anusly Grail would not have spent a fifth of the sum he flung away on evening gowns, street gowns, boudoir gowns, hats, high-heeled, paste-buckled slippers, a gold-fitted dressing-bag, an ermine wrap, a fur-lined motor-coat, and more suede gloves and silk stockings than can be used, it seemed to the girl, in the next ten years. He begged for the privilege of helping choose, not because he didn't trust her taste, but because he feared she might be economical, and during the whole day in Bond Street, Regent Street, Oxford Street, and Knightsbridge, she was given only an hour to herself. That hour she was expected to pass, and did pass, in providing herself with all sorts of intimate daintiness of Nainsook, Lace, and Ribbon, too sacred even for a lover's eyes. And Knight spent the time of his absence from her upon an errand which he did not explain. "'I'll tell you what I did, and show you, to-morrow, when I come to wish you good morning,' he said, "'unless you're going to be conventional and refuse to see me till we meet at the altar,' as the sentimental writers say. I think I've heard that's the smart thing. But I hope it won't be your way. If I didn't see you from now till to-morrow, after noon, I should be afraid I'd lost you for ever.' Anisly felt the same about him, and told him so. They dined together, but not at the Savoy. The Countess's name was not mentioned, yet Anisly guessed it was because of her that Knight proposed an Italian restaurant. When he left her at last at the door of her own hotel, everything was settled for the wedding day and after. Knight was to produce two friends, both men, to one of whom must fall the fatherly duty of giving the bride away. He suggested their calling upon her in the morning, while he was with her at the Savoy, in order that they might not meet his strangers at the church, and the girl thought this a wise idea. As for the honeymoon, Knight confessed to knowing little of England outside London, and asked Anisly if she had a choice. Would she like to have a week or so in some warm county like Devonshire or Cornwall, or would she enjoy a trip to Paris or the Riviera? It was all one to him, he assured her, only he had set his heart on getting back to London soon, finding a house and beginning life as they meant to live it. Anisly chose Devonshire. She said she would like to show it to-night. I think you'll love it, she told him. We might stay at several places I used to adore when I was a child. And if we get to Sidmouth's, maybe you'll have a glimpse of those cousins you were talking about, the Anisly Seatons. I believe they have a place nearby called Valley House, but I don't know whether they live there or let it. We'll go to Sidmouth, he said. The girl smiled. His desire that she should scrape acquaintance with Lord and Lady Anisly Seatons seemed boyish and amusing to her, but she did not know how it could be brought about. Next morning at eleven o'clock, when Anisly had been up for two hours, packing her new things and her new trunks and the gorgeous new dressing-bag, she was informed that Mr. Nelson Smith had arrived. The girl had forgotten that night had hinted at something to tell her and something to show her on the morning of their marriage day, and expected to find his two friends with him, but he had come alone. We've got a half hour together, he said. Then Dr. Torrance and the Marchest de Moreio may turn up at any minute. Torrance is an elderly man, a decent short of chap, and deadly respectable. He'll do the heavy father well enough. Paolo de Moreio is an Italian. I don't care for him, but the troublesome business about my name is a handicap. I can trust these men, and at least they won't put you to shame. You can judge them when they come, so enough talk about them for the present. This is my excuse for being here. And he put into Anisly's hand a flat, oval-shaped parcel. My wedding gift to my bride, he added, in a softer tone. Open it, sweet. The white paper wrapping was fastened with small red seals. If the girl had had knowledge of such things she would have known that it was a jeweler's parcel. But the white, gold-stamped silk case within surprised her. She pressed a tiny knob and the cover flew up to show a string of pearls which made her gasp. For the princess, from her night, he said, and here, he took from the inner pocket of his coat a band of gold set with a big white diamond, is your engagement ring. Every girl must have one, you know, even if her engagement is the shortest on record. I've the wedding ring, too, but it isn't the time for that. A good-sized diamond's the obvious sort of thing, advertises itself for what it is, and that's what we want. You'll wear it as much to say, I was engaged like everybody else. But if there wasn't a reason against it, this is what I should like to put on your finger. As he spoke he hid the spark of light in his other hand, and from the pocket, once it had come, produced another ring. If she had not seen this, Anisly would have exclaimed against the word obvious for the splendid, brilliant, as big as a small pea, which Knight put aside so carelessly. But the contrast between the modern ring with its solitaire diamond, and the wonderful rival he gave it, silenced her. She was no judge of jewelry, and had never possessed any worth having, but she knew that this second ring was a rare as well as a beautiful antique. It looked worthy, she thought, of a real princess. Even the gold was different from other gold, the little that was visible, for the square-cut stone of pale, scintillating blue was surrounded by a frame of tiny brilliance encrusting the rim as far as could be seen on the back of the hand when the ring was worn. A sapphire, Anisly exclaimed, my favorite stone, yet I never saw a sapphire like it before. It's wonderful, brighter than a diamond. It is a diamond, said Knight, a blue diamond, and considered remarkable. It's what your friend Ruth Van Smyth would call a museum-piece if you showed it to him. But you mustn't. He'd move heaven and earth to get it. Nobody must see it but you and me. It wouldn't be safe. It's too valuable. And if you were known to have it, you'd be in danger from all the jewel thieves in Europe and America. You wouldn't like that. No, it would be horrible, Anisly shuddered, but what a pity it must be hidden. Is it yours? It's yours at present, said Knight, if you'll keep it to yourself and look at it only when you and I are alone together. I can't give it to you precisely to have and hold, as I shall give you myself in a few hours, because this ring is more a trust than a possession. Something may happen which will force me to ask you for it. But again it may not, and anyhow I want you to have the ring until that time comes. I've bought a thin gold chain and you can hang it around your neck unless—I almost think you're inclined to refuse. Another mystery, but the blue diamond in its scintillating frame was so alluring that Anisly could not refuse. She knew that she would have more pleasure in peeping surreptitiously at the secret blue diamond than in seeing the obvious white one on her finger. I can't give it up, she said, laughing, but I hope it isn't one of those dreadful historic stones which have had murders committed for it, like the famous jewels one reads of, I should hate anything that came from you to bring bad luck. So should I hate it. If there's any bad luck coming, I want it myself," Knight said gravely. I wish I hadn't spoken of bad luck today, the girl remorsefully exclaimed, but I'm not afraid. Give me the ring. He gave it and pulled from his pocket the slight gold chain on which he meant it to hang. He was leisurely threading the ring upon this when two men looked in at the door of the reading-room. One of the pair was of more than middle age. He was tall, thin, and slightly stooping. His respectable clothes seemed too loose for him. His hair and straggling beard were gray, contrasting with the sallow darkness of his skin. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and peered through them as if they were not strong enough for his failing sight. The other man was younger. He too was dark and sallow, but his close-cut hair was black. He was clean-shaven and well-dressed. He wore a high, almost painfully high collar, which caused him to keep his chin in the air. He might be a Spaniard or an Italian. Anisly had certainly not seen him before. She told herself this twice over. Yet she was frightened. There was something familiar about him. It must be her foolish imagination which took alarm at everything. But with fingers grown cold she covered up the blue diamond.  If Knight had remained with her after his friends finished their call, she might have confessed to him how she had fancied in the tall dark young man a likeness to one of the dreaded watchers. Until Knight spoke their names she had feared that the pair looking in at the door were there to spy. That one, at all events, was disguised cleverly, yet not cleverly enough to hide his identity. But Knight said good-bye and went away with his friends, giving the girl no chance for further talk with him. They did not meet again until, with the Countess de Santiago, Anisly arrived at the obscure church chosen for the marriage ceremony. There Dr. Torrance awaited them outside the door, and took charge of the bride, while the Countess found her way in alone, and Anisly saw through the mist of confused emotion her night of love and mystery awaiting at the altar. During the ceremony that followed he made his responses firmly, his eyes calling so clearly to hers, that she answered with an almost hypnotised gaze. His looks seemed to seal the promise of his words. In spite of all that was strange and secret and unsatisfying about him, she had no regrets, love was worth everything, and she could but believe that he loved her. His strong conviction went with the girl to the vestry, and made it easier to turn away when his name, his real name, which she, though his wife was not to know, was recorded by him in the book. They parted from Torrance, Morello and the Countess of the church door, an arrangement which delighted Anisly. In the haste of making plans she and Knight had forgotten to discuss what they were to do after the wedding and before their departure, but Knight had found time to decide the matter. These people were the best material I could get a hold of at a moment's notice, he remarked coolly, when he and Anisly were in the motor car he had hired for the journey to Devonshire. We've used them before, because we needed them. Now we don't need them any longer, it seems to me that a newly married couple ought to keep only dear friends around them, or no one. Later we can repay these three for the favour they've done us, if you call it a favour, meanwhile we'll forget them. Knight had neglected no detail which could make for Anisly's comfort, or save her from any embarrassment arising from the hurried wedding. Her luggage had been packed by a maid in the hotel, and, all but the dressing-bag and a small box made for an automobile, sent ahead by rail to Devonshire. She and Knight were to travel in the comfortable limousine which would protect them against weather. She did not matter, Knight said, how long they were on the way. At Exeter they would visit some good agency in search of a lady's maid. Anisly said that she did not need a maid to wait on her, since she had been accustomed not only to taking care of herself, but Mrs. Ellsworth. Knight, however, insisted that his wife must be looked after by a competent woman. It was the right thing, but his idea was that, in the circumstances, it would be pleasanter to have a country girl than a sharp, London-bred woman or a Parisienne. In Exeter, an ideal person was obtainable, a Devonshire girl who had been trained to amaze duties, as the agent boasted, by a lady of title. She had accompanied the Marchioness to France and had had lessons and cans from a hairdresser, masseuse, and manicurist. Now her mistress was dead, and Parker was in search of another place. She was a gentle, sweet-looking girl, and though she asked for wages higher than Mrs. Ellsworth had paid her companion, Knight pronounced them reasonable. She was directed to go by train to the Noel Hotel at Sidmouth, where a suite had been engaged by Telegram for Mr. and Mrs. Nelton Smith and Maid, and to have all the luggage unpacked before their arrival. Flung thus into intimate association with a man, almost a stranger, Anisley had been afraid, in the midst of her happiness. She felt, as a young Christian maiden, a prisoner of Nero's day might have felt, if told she was to be flung to a lion miraculously subdued by the influence of Christianity.  But Anisley's lion, neither struck nor crouched, he stood by her side as a protector. Knight seemed more and more appropriate as a name for him. Though there were roughness and crudenesses in his manner and choice of words, all he did and said made Anisley sure that she had been right in her first impression. Not a cultured gentleman, like Archdeacon Smith, or Anisley's dead father, and the few men who had come near in her early childhood before her home fell to pieces. He was a gentleman at heart. She told herself and in all essentials. It struck her as beautiful and even pathetic, rather than contemptible, that he should humbly wish to learn of her the small refinements he had missed in the past, that mysterious past which mattered less and less to Anisley as the present became dear and vital. I've knocked about a lot all over the world, he explained in a casual way, during a talk they had had on the night of their marriage at the first stopping-place to which the motor brought them.  He never got over it as long as he lived, and I never will as long as I live. The way my father died was almost as tragic as my mother's death he went on after a tense moment of remembering. I was only a boy even then, and ever since the knocking about process has been going on. I haven't seen much of the best side of life, but I've wanted it. That was why, for one reason, you made such an appeal to me at first sight. You were as plucky and generous as any Bohemian, though I can see you were a delicate, inexperienced girl, brought up under a class, like the orchid you look, and are. I'm used to making up my mind in a hurry, I've had to, so it didn't take me many minutes to realize that if I could get you to link up with me I should have the thing I'd been looking for. Well, by the biggest stroke of luck I've got you, sooner than I could have dared to hope, and now I don't want to make you afraid of me. I know my faults and failings, but I don't know how to put them right and be the sort of man a girl like you can be proud of. It's up to you to show me the way. Whenever you see me going wrong you're to tell me, that's what I want, turn me into a gentleman. When anisly, tenderly reassured him with loving flatteries, he only laughed and caught her up in his arms. Like a prince am I, he echoed, well, I've got princely blood in my veins, through my mother, but there are popper princes, and in the popper business, the gilding gets rubbed off. I trust you to gild my battered corners. No good trying to tell me I'm gold all through, because I know better. But when youth made me shine on the outside, I'll keep the surface bright. Anisly who did not like the persistent way in which he spoke of himself as a black sheep, who at best could be whitened and trained not to disgrace the fold, yet it piqued her interest. Books said that women had weaknesses for men who were not good, and she supposed that she was like the rest. He was so dear and chivalrous that certain defiant hints as to his lack of virtue vaguely added to the spice of mystery which decorated the background of the picture, the vivid picture of the stranger night. When they had been for three days in the best suite at the Noelle Hotel, and had made several short excursions with the motor, he asked the girl if she felt like getting acquainted with her cousins. She did not protest as she had at first. Already she knew her night well enough to be assured that when he resolved to do a thing it was practically done. She had had chances to realize his force of character in little ways as well as big ones, and she understood that he was bent on scraping acquaintance with the lord and lady Anisly Seton. Had he not decided upon Sidmouth the instant she mentioned their ownership of a place in the neighborhood, she had been certain that he would not neglect the opportunity created. How are we to set about it? was all she said.  I've looked it up in the local guide-book. It's open to the public three days a week. Anyone with a shilling to spare can see the ancestral portraits and treasures and the equally ancestral rooms of your distinguished family. Does that interest you? Yes, but I'm a distant relation, as well as a poor one. Anisly reminded him with her old humility. You're not poor now, and blood is thicker than water when it's in a golden cup. It's Lord and Lady Anisly Seton's turn to play the poor relations. It seems their stony, even the shillings the public pay, to see the place are an object to them. Oh, I'm sorry, exclaimed Anisly. That's generous, seeing they never bothered themselves about you when they had plenty of shillings and you had none. I don't suppose they knew there was a me. Lord Anisly Seton must have known if his wife didn't know, but we'll let that pass. I was thinking we might go to the house on one of the public days, with the man who wrote the local guide-book. I've made his acquaintance through writing him a note, complimenting him on his work and his knowledge of history. He answered like a shot, with thanks for the appreciation, and said if he could help me he'd be delighted. He's the editor of a newspaper in Torquay. If we invite him to lunch here at the gnoll, he'll fall over himself to accept. Then we'll be able to kill two birds with one stone. He'll tell us things about the heirlooms at the Valley House. We shouldn't be able to find without his help. Or a lot of dreary drudgery. And also he'll put a paragraph about us in his newspaper, which he'll send to your cousins. Now, isn't that a combination of brilliant ideas? Yes, laughed anisly, but why should you take so much trouble? And how can you tell that the editor's paragraph would make the anisly sitans want to know us? As for the paragraph, you may put your faith in me. As for the trouble, nothing's too much to launch my wife on the top wave of society, where she has every right to be. I want Mrs. Nelson Smith to have her chance to shine. Money would do the trick sooner or later, but I wanted to be done sooner. Besides, I have a feeling I should like us to get where we want to be. Without the noisy splash money bags make when new rich candidates for society are launched. Your people will see excellent reasons why their late poor relation is worth cultivating, but trust them to save their faces by keeping their real motive secret. With a touch of sarcasm I seem to hear them going about among their friends, whom they'll invite to meet us, saying how charming and unspoiled you are, though you've got more money than you know what to do with. I, with the protesting pronoun, anisly disclaimed all ownership of her husband's fortune, whatever it might be. It is the same thing, you and I are one. Whatever is mine is yours. I don't swear to make you a regular, unfailing allowance. Worthy of the new position you are going to have. Because you see I do business with several countries, and my incomes erratic. I'm never sure to the day when it will come or how much it will be. But there is nothing you want which you can't buy. Remember that. And when we begin life in London you shall have a standing account at as many shops as you like. Anisly made no objection to Knight's plan, for luring the journalist into his trap, which was a harmless one. According to his prophecy Mr. Milton Savage of the Turquay, weakly messenger, accepted the invitation from his correspondent, and came to luncheon on the day when the public were free to view Valley House. He was a small man, with a big head, and eyes which glinted large, behind convex spectacles. Anisly was charming to him, not only in the wish to please Knight, but because she was kind-hearted and had intense sympathy for suppressed people. Mr. Savage was grateful and admiring, and drank in every word Knight dropped, as if carelessly, about the relationship to Lord Anisly Seton. Knight allowed himself to be pumped concerning it, and also his wife's parentage, letting fall, with apparent inadvertence, bits of information regarding himself, his travels, his adventures, and the fortune he had picked up. I am the exception, he said, to the proverb, that a rolling stone gathers no moss. I have gathered all I want, or know what to do with, and now I am married, I mean to take a rest. I haven't decided yet where or how, but it will be somewhere in England. We're looking for a house in London, and later we might rent one in the country too. Anisly admired his cleverness in touching the goal, but somehow these smart hints disturbed rather than amused her. Knight's complexity was a puzzle to her. She could not understand, despite his explanations, why these fireworks of dexterity were worthwhile. Knight was a brave figure of romance. She did not want her hero turned into an intrigue, no matter how innocent his motive. After luncheon they drove five or six miles in the motor to Valley House, a place of Jacobean times. There was an Italian garden and an English garden containing every flower, plant, and herb mentioned by Shakespeare. Each garden had a distant view of the sea, darkly framed by Lebanon's cedars and immense beaches, while the house itself, not large as show-houses go, was perfect of its kind. With carved stone mantles, elaborate oak panelling and staircases, leaded windows, and treasures of portraits, armor, ancient books, and brick-a-brack, which would have remade the family fortune, if all had not been heirlooms. There was not a picture on the walls, nor an old piece of jewellery in the many locked glass cabinets of which Mr. Milton Savage could not tell the history as he guided the Nelson Smiths through the hall and corridors and rooms with marvellous molded ceilings. The livery servant told off to show the crowd over the house, had but a superficial knowledge of its riches compared with the lore of the journalist, and the editor of the Turquay, weekly messenger, became inconveniently popular with the public. He was not blind to the compliment, however, and motoring into Turquay at the end of the afternoon with his host and hostesses, expressed himself delighted with his visit. That night was his night for going to press, but he found time to write the paragraph which Nelson Smith expected. Next morning a copy of the messenger, with a page marked, arrived at the Noel Hotel, and another also marked, went to Valley House. The bride and bridegroom were at breakfast when the paper came. There were also three letters, all for night. The first which either had received since their marriage. Night cut open the envelopes slowly, one after the other, and made no comment. Anisly could not help wondering if the Countess had written, for an involuntary glance had made her sure that one of night's letters was from a woman, a purple envelope with a purple monogram, and a blob of purple wax sealed with a crown. He read all three, put them back into their envelopes, rose, dropped them into the fire, watched them burn to ashes, and quietly returned to his seat. Then, as if really interested, he tore the wrapping off the turquoise messenger. Now we shall see ourselves in print, he said, and a moment later was reading to Anisly an account of, the two most interesting guests the Noel Hotel has entertained this season. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith were described with enthusiasm. They were young and handsome. He was immensely rich. She was highly connected, as well as beautiful, having been a Miss Anisly Grail related on her mother's side to the Earl of Anisly Seaton. The modesty of the young couple was so great, however, that though the bridegroom was a millionaire well known in his adopted country America, and the bride quite closely linked with his lordship's family they had refused to make their presence in the neighborhood known to the Earl and Lady. Instead they had visited Valley House with a crowd of tourists on a public day, expressing the opinion to a representative of the messenger that it would be intrusive to present themselves to Lord and Lady Anisly Seaton. They were spending their honeymoon in Devonshire and might find, during their motor tours, a suitable country place to buy or rent. In any case they would look for a house in which to settle on their return to London. Could for Milton Savage left night. Now will lie low and see what will happen. They thought that nothing would happen but she was wrong. The next morning a note came by hand for Mrs. Nelson Smith, brought by a footman on a bicycle. The note was from Lady Anisly Seaton. CHAPTER 10 THE BEGINNING OF THE SERIES No man who had not known the seamy side of life could have guessed the effect of Milton Savage's paragraph upon the minds of Lord and Lady Anisly Seaton. I told you if you bet against me you would bet wrong, Knight said, when the astonished girl handed the letter across the breakfast-table. Even he had hardly reckoned on such extreme cordiality. He had expected a bid for acquaintanceship with the millionaire and his bride, but he had fancied there would be a certain stiffness in the effort. Lady Anisly Seaton had become, my dear cousin, and her frank American way was disarming. She wrote four pages of apology for herself and her husband, explaining why they had neglected looking up Mrs. Nelson Smith when she was Miss Anisly Grail. The letter went on, I hadn't been married long when my husband read, out of some newspaper, the notice of a clergyman's death, and mentioned that he was a cousin by marriage whom he hadn't met since boyhood. So the clergyman's living was, in our county, somewhere off at the other end. My husband thought there was a daughter, and I remember his remarking that we ought to write and find out if she'd been left badly off. Of course it was my duty to have kept his idea alive and to have carried it out, but I was young and having such a good time that I'm afraid it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. We forgot to inquire and heard no more. It was horrid of us, and I'm sure it was our loss. Finally we should have remembered if things had gone well with us, but perhaps you know that my father, whose money used to seem unlimited to me, lost it all, and we were mixed up in the smash. We've been poorer than any church my since, and trying to make ends meet has occupied our attention from that day to this. I have to confess that, if our attention hadn't been drawn to your name, we might never have thought of it again. But now I've eased my conscience, and as fate seems to have brought us within close touch, do let us see what she means to do with us. We should like to meet you and Mr. Nelson Smith, who is apparently more or less a countryman of mine. I'm not allowed out yet in this cold weather, after an attack of flu, but my husband will call this afternoon on the chance of finding you in, carrying a warm invitation to you both, to wave ceremony and dine with us at Valley House on Famille. Coming forward to meeting you, yours, most cordially, Constance Anasly Seton. Sweet of her, isn't it, Anasly exclaimed, when she and Knight had read the letter through? Knight glanced at his wife quizzically, opened his lips to speak, and closed them. Perhaps he thought it would be unwise, as well as wrong, to disturb the girl's faith in Lady Anasly Seton's disinterestedness. Yes, it's real sweet, he said, exaggerating his American accent, but keeping a grave face. They were dually at home that afternoon, though they had intended to go out, and the caller found them in a private sitting-room filled with flowers, suggesting much money and a love of spending it. Anasly had put on Knight's favorite frock, one of the model-dresses he had chosen for her in their whirlwind rush through Bond Street, a white cloth trimmed with narrow bands of dark fur, and she had never looked prettier. With Anasly Seton, a tall, thin man of the eagle-nose soldier-type, wearing panzne, but youthful-looking for the forty-four years Burt gave him, could not help thinking her a satisfactory cousin to pick up, and Nelson Smith was far from being in appearance the rough, self-made man he had dreaded. He was delighted with them both, so young, so handsome, so happy, so fortunate, and luckily so well-bred. He did not make the short conventional call he had intended, but stayed to tea, and at last went home to give his wife an enthusiastic account of the visit. The girl's a lady, and might be a beauty if she had more confidence in herself. You know what I mean, taking herself for granted as a charmer the way you smart women do, he said, she isn't that kind, but with you to show her the ropes she'll be liked by the right people. There's a softness and sweetness and genuineness that you don't often see in girls now. As for the man, you'll think him a ripper, Connie, so will other women.  A strong man, I should say, a man's man as well as a woman's, might take if he started right. We'll see to that, said Constance Annisley Seaton, who was not too ill to go out, but had not wanted to seem too eager. She was less than thirty, but looked more because she had worried and drawn faint lines between her delicate auburn brows and at the corners of her greenish-gray eyes. There were also a few fading threads in the red locks which were her one real beauty, but she had a marvellous hair varnish which prevented them from showing. We'll see to that, if they'll let us. Are they going to let us? Yes, I think so, Annisley Seaton reassured her. They're a pair of children willing to be guided. They can have anything they want in the world, but they don't seem to know what to want. Splendid, laughed Constance. Can't we will them to want our house and town and invite us to visit them? I shouldn't wonder, replied her husband. You might make a start in that direction when they come to dinner to-morrow evening. Lord Annisley Seaton had outgrown such enthusiasm as he might have once had. Therefore his account of the cousins encouraged Constance to hope much, and she was not disappointed. On the contrary, she thought that he had not said enough, especially about the man. But she had not had so many anxieties that her youthful love of larks had been crushed out. She would have adored a flirtation with Nelson Smith. It would have been great fun to steal him from the pretty beanpole of a girl who would not know how to use her claws in a fight for a man. But as it was, Connie thought only of conciliating cousin Ann and winning her confidence. Other women would try to take Nelson Smith from his wife, but Connie would have her hands full in playing a less amusing game. She thought, seeing that the handsome, dark young man she admired had a mind of his own, it would be a difficult game to play, and Nelson Smith saw that she thought so. His sense of humor caused him to smile at his own cleverness in producing the impression, and he would have given a good deal for someone to laugh with over her maneuvers to entice him along the road he wished to travel. But he dared not point out to annously the fun of the situation. To do so would be to put her against him and it. She too had a sense of humor, suppressed by five years of Mrs. Ellsworth, but coming delightfully to life, like a half-frozen bird, in the sunshine of safety and happiness. Knight appealed to it and encouraged it often, for he could not have lived with a humorless woman, no matter how sweet. Yet he did not dare to wake it where her cousins were concerned. Her sense of honor was more valuable to him than her sense of humor. He was afraid to put the former on the defensive, and he was glad to let her believe the annously sitans were genuinely warming to them in a way which proved that blood was thicker than water. The girl had wondered, from the first, why he was determined to make friends with these cousins whom she had never known, and he was grateful because she believed in him too loyally to attribute his desire to snobbishness. He wished her to suppose that he had set his heart on providing her with influential guidance on the threshold of a new life, and it was important that she should not begin criticizing his motives. By the time dinner was over, Constance Annously Setan had decided that the Nelson Smiths had been sent to her by the powers that be, and that it would be tempting Providence not to annex them. Not that she put it in that way to herself, for she did not trouble her mind about Providence. All she knew was that she and Dick would be fools to let the chance slip. It was as much as she could do not to suggest the idea in her mind that the Nelson Smiths should take the house in Portman Square, that she and her husband should introduce them to society, and that the Devonshire Place should either be let to them or that they should visit there when they wished to be in the country, as paying guests. But she controlled her impatience, limiting herself to proposing plans for future meetings. She suggested giving a dinner in honor of the bride and bridegroom, and inviting people to whom it would be nice for them to know in town. Knight said that he and Anita, his new name for Annously, a souvenir of Spanish South America, would accept with pleasure, and the girl agreed gladly, because she thought her cousin and his wife were very kind. After dinner Annously Setan and Knight followed Constance and Anita almost directly, the former asking his guests if they would like to see some of the family treasures which they could only have glanced at in passing with the crowd the other day. Before sugar went to smash we blazed into all sorts of extravagances here, he said, bitterly, with a glance at the deposed sugar king's daughter. Among others, putting electric light into this old barn. We'll have an illumination and show you some trifles Connie and I wish to heaven a kind-hearted burglar would relieve us of. Of course the beastly things are heirlooms, as I suppose you know. We can't sell or pawn them, or I should have done one or the other long ago. They're insured by the trustees who are the bane of our lives for the estate. But a sporting sort of company has blossomed out lately, which insures against loss of use. I think that's the expression. I pay the premium myself, even when I can't pay anything else. And if the valuable contents of this place are stolen or burned, we shall benefit personally.  You see, each object in the collection helps bring in those shillings, and loss of use of a single one would be a real deprivation. So it's fair and aboveboard. But thus far I've paid my premium and got no return these last three years. Our tourists are so disgustingly honest, or our burglars so clumsy and unenterprising, that as you say in the States there's nothing doing. As he talked, Dick Anisley Seaton sauntered about the immense room into which they had come from the State Banqueting Hall, switching on more and more of the electric candlelight set high on the green brocade walls. This was known as the green drawing room by the family, and the room of the miniatures by the public who read about it in catalogs. Come and look at our white elephants, he went on, when the room, dimly and economically lit at first, was ablaze with light, and Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith joined him eagerly. Constance followed two, bored but resigned, and her husband paused before a tall, narrow glass cabinet standing in a recess. See these miniatures, he exclaimed fretfully, there are plenty more but the best are in this cabinet, and there is a millionaire chap in New York. Perhaps you can guess his name, Smith, who has offered a hundred thousand pounds for the thirty little bits of ivory in it. I think that must have been the great Paul Van Vrek, night hazarded. I thought you'd guess. There aren't many who'd make such an offer. Think what it would mean to me if it could be accepted, and I could have the handling of the money. There are three small pictures in the little octagon gallery next door, too. Van Vrek took a fancy to on a visit he paid us from Saturday to Monday last summer. We never thought much of them, and they're in a dark place, labeled in the catalogue, Artist Unknown, School of Fragonard. But he swore they were authentic Fragonards, and would have backed his opinion to the tune of fifteen thousand pounds for the trio, or six thousand for the one he liked best. Isn't it aggravating? In the Chinese room he went mad over some bits of jade, especially a Buddha nobody else had ever admired. He's one of the few millionaire collectors who really is a judge of all sorts of things, Knight replied. But Great Scott, I'm no expert, yet it strikes me these miniatures are something out of the ordinary. Well, yes they are, Anisley Seaton admitted modestly. That queer one at the top is a Nicholas Hillyard. I believe he was the first of the miniaturists. And the two just underneath are Samuel Coopers. They say he stood at the head of the Englishmen. There are also three Richard Cosways, and a rather nice Angelica Kaufman. It was the Fragonard miniature Mr. Van Vrek liked best, put in Constance. It seems he painted only a few. And next the Goya. Good heavens, where is the Fragonard? cried Dick, his eyes bulging in his pen's ne. Surely it was here. Oh, surely yes, panted his wife. It was never anywhere else. For an instant they were both stricken into silence, both staring at a blank space on the black velvet background where twenty-nine miniatures hung. There was no doubt about it when they had reviewed the rows of little painted faces. The Fragonard was gone. Stolen, gaffed Lady Anisley Seaton. Unless one of you, or some servant you trust with the key, is a somnambulist, said Knight, I don't see how it would pay a thief to steal such a thing. It must be too well known. He couldn't dispose of it. That is, if he weren't a collector himself. And even then he could never show it. But by Jove! Visit! What have you seen? Anisley Seaton asked sharply. Knight pointed without touching the cabinet. He had never come near enough to do that. It looks to me as if a square bit of glass had been cut out on the side where the lost miniature must have hung. He said, I can't be sure from where I stand because the cabinet is too close to the wall of the recess. Dick Anisley Seaton thrust his arm into the space between green brocade and glass, then slipped his hand through a neatly cut aperture just big enough to admit its passage. With his hand in the square hole he could reach the spot where the miniature had hung, and could have taken it off the hook had it been there. But hook, as well as miniature, was missing. That settles it, he exclaimed. It is a theft and a clever one. Strange we should find it out when I was demonstrating to you how much I wished it would happen. Hurrah! That miniature alone is insured against burglary for seven or eight hundred pounds. I mean to what it's worth, but a lot to pay a premium on, with the rest of the things besides. I wish now I hadn't been so cheese-pairing. You'll be witnesses, you two, of our discovery. I'm glad Connie and I weren't alone when we found it out. Something nasty might have been said.  What was the other miniature like? I wonder if we saw it when we were here the other day, Anita. I remember these, but I can't recall any other. Where can I? returned Annasly.  We saw so many and passed so quickly. I wonder if Paul van Vreck was here in disguise among the tourists, said Dick, beginning to laugh. It would have been the one he'd have chosen if he couldn't grab the lot.  Annasly cried. Dick is half and joke, Constance explained. It would have been a miracle, yet the servants are above suspicion. Those horrid trustees never let me choose a new one without their interference. And, of course, Dick didn't mean what he said about Mr. van Vreck. Of course not. I understood that, Annasly excused herself, blushing, lest she had appeared obtuse. All the same to carry on the joke, let's go into the octagon room and see if the alleged Fragonard pictures have gone too, said Annasly Seton. He led the way, turning on more light in the adjoining room as he went, and outdistancing the others they heard him stammer, Good Lord, before they were near enough to see what he saw. They aren't gone, shrieked his wife, hurrying after him. One of them is. In an instant the three had grouped behind him where he stood staring in an empty frame, between two others of the same pattern and size, charming old frames, twelve or fourteen inches square, within whose boundaries of carved and gilded wood, nymphs held hands and danced. Are we dreaming this? gasped Constance. Thank heaven we're not, the husband answered. The two paintings are on wood, you see. So was the missing one. Someone has simply unfastened it from the frame, and trusted to this being a dark, out of the way corner, not to have the theft noticed for hours or maybe days. By all that's wonderful, here's another insurance hall for me. What about the Jade Buddha in the Chinese room? They rushed back into the green drawing room and so to the beautiful Chinese room beyond, with its priceless lacquer tables and cabinets. In one of these latter a collection of itsquisite Jade was gathered together, and the Buddha which Paul then Wreck had coveted was gone. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI of the second latch-key. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbany. The second latch-key by Charles Norris and Alice Muriel Williamson. CHAPTER XI. Annasly Remembers. There was great excitement for the next few days at Valley House and throughout the neighborhood, for the Annasly Seatons made no secret of the robbery and the affair got into the papers, not only the local ones, but the London dailies, two of the latter sent representatives to whom Lord Annasly Seaton granted interviews, something he said attracted the reporter's attention to Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith, who had been dining at Valley House on the evening when the theft was discovered, and night was begged for an interview. He was asked if he had formed an opinion as to the disappearance of the three heirlooms, and whether he knew personally Mr. Paul Van Vreck, the American collector and retired head of the famous firm of jewelers, who had wished to buy the vanished treasures. Having spent most of his life in America, night had the theory that unless you wished to be misrepresented, the only safe thing was to let yourself be interviewed. He was accordingly so good-natured and interesting that the reporters were delighted with him. If he had been wishing for a wide advertisement of his personality, his possessions and his plans, he could not have chosen a sure way of getting it. The two newspapers which had undertaken to boom the Valley House heirloom theft had almost limitless circulations. One of them possessed a continental edition, and the other was immensely popular because of its topical illustrations. Snapshots, not so unflattering as usual, were obtained of the young Anglo-American millionaire and his bride, as they started away from the Noel Hotel in their motor, or as they walked in the garden. Though night had disclaimed any personal acquaintance with the great Paul Van Vreck, he was able to state that Mr. Van Vreck had been convalescing at Palm Beach, in Florida, at the time of the robbery. He had had an attack of pneumonia in the autumn, and instead of traveling in his yacht to Egypt, as he generally did travel early in the winter, he had been ordered by his doctors to be satisfied with a place in the sun nearer home. Everyone in America knew this, night explained, and everyone in England might know it also, unless it had been forgotten. If Mr. Van Vreck were well enough to take an interest in the papers, he was sure to be amused by the coincidence that the things stolen from Valley House were among those he had wanted to buy. It thought, however, that even if the clever thief or thieves had heard of Van Vreck's whim, no attempt would be made to dispose of the spoil to him. The elderly millionaire, though one of the most eccentric men living, was known as the Soul of Honor. The relationship between young Mrs. Nelson Smith and Lord Ansley Seaton was touched upon in the papers, and though it was irrelevant to the subject in hand, mention was made of the Nelson Smith's plans to live in London. This gave Constance her chance. At an impromptu luncheon at the Noel Hotel, before the intended dinner-party at Valley House, she referred to the interests society would begin to take in this romantic couple. Everybody will have fallen in love with you already, she said, from those snapshots in the looking-glass. They make you both look such darlings, though they don't flatter either of you. All the people we know will be clamoring to meet you, so you must hurry and find a nice house in the right part of town before some other sensation comes up and you're forgotten. How would it look if you took our house for a couple of months, while you're looking round? Naturally if you liked it you could keep it on. We'd be delighted, for we have to let it when we can, and it would be a pleasure to think of you in it. If we're in it you must both come and stay, and not only think of us, but be with us, mustn't they Anita? Knight proposed. Of course, Ansley said yes and meant yes. Not that she really wanted her duet with Knight to be broken up into a chorus, but she longed to succeed as a woman of the world, since that was what he wanted her to be, and she realized that Lady Ansley Seton's help would be invaluable. So through the theft at Valley House, and the developments therefrom, the hidden desires of Nelson Smith and the daughter of the deposed Sugar King accomplished themselves, Connie still believing that she had engineered the affair with diplomatic skill, and night laughing silently at the way she had played into his hands. Detectives were set to work by the two insurance companies, who hoped to trace the thief and discover the stolen Fragonards and the Jade Buddha, but their efforts failed, and at the dinner party given in honor of the new cousins, Lord and Lady Ansley Seton rejoiced openly in their good luck. All the same, Constance said, I should like to know how the things were spirited out of the house, and where they are. It is the first mystery that has ever come into our lives. I wish I were a clairvoyant. It would be fun. Did you ever hear of the Countess de Santiago when you lived in America? Asked Knight in his calm voice. He did not glance toward Ansley, who sat at the other end of the table, but he must have guessed that she would turn with a start of surprise on hearing the Countess's name in this connection. The Countess de Santiago, Connie echoed, no, what about her? She sounds interesting. She is interesting and beautiful. Everybody had stopped talking by this time to listen, and in the pause Knight appealed to his wife, that's not an exaggeration, is it, Anita? Ansley, wondering and somewhat startled, answered that the Countess de Santiago was one of the most beautiful women she had seen. This riveted the attention which Knight had caught. He had his audience and went on in a leisurely way. Come to think of it, she can't have been heard of in your part of the world until you'd left for England, he told Constance. She's the most extraordinary clairvoyant I ever heard of. That's what made me speak of her. Unfortunately, she's not a professional, and won't do anything unless she happens to feel like it, but I wonder if I could persuade her to look in her crystal for you, Lady Ansley Seaton. She's an old acquaintance of mine, he went on casually. I met her in Buenos Aires, before her rich elderly husband died, about seven or eight years ago. She was very young, then. I came across her again in California when she was seeing the world as a free woman, after the old fellow's death. Then I introduced her by letter to one or two people in New York, and I believe she has been admired there and at Newport. But I've only heard all that, Knight hastened to explain. I've been too busy till lightly, to know at first hand what goes on in the smart or the artistic set. My world doesn't take much interest in crystal gazers and palmists, amateur or professional, even when they happen to be handsome women, like the Countess. But I ran against her again on board the Monarchic about a month ago, crossing to this side, and we picked up threads of old acquaintance. She was staying at the Savoy when I left London. He paused a moment and added, as a favour to me she might set her accomplishments to work on this business, only she'd have to meet you both and see this house, for I've heard her say she couldn't do anything without knowing the people concerned and getting the atmosphere. Oh, we MUST have her, cried Constance, and all the other women, except Ansley, chimed in, begging their hostess to invite them if the Countess came. No one thought it odd that Mrs. Nelson Smith should be silent, for her remark about the Countess de Santiago's beauty showed that she had met the lady, but to anyone who had turned a critical stare upon her then her expression must have seemed strange. She had an unseeing look, the look of one who has become deaf and blind, to everything outside some scene conjured up by the brain. What Ansley saw was a copy of the morning post, Knight's mention of the Countess de Santiago's power of clairvoyance at the same time with the liner Monarchic, printed before her eyes a paragraph which her subconscious self had never forgotten. For a moment only her body sat between a young hunting baronet and a distinguished elderly general at her cousin's dinner-table. Her soul had gone back to London, to the ugly dining-room at 22A, Torrington Square, and was reading aloud from a newspaper to a stout old woman in a tea-gown. She was even able to recall what she had been thinking as her lips mechanically conveyed the news to Mrs. Ellsworth.  As she pictured to herself the old woman's amazement, followed by rage, she had pronounced the words, SENSATIONAL ACCURANCE ON BOARD THE SS MONARCHIC. Even that exciting preface had not recalled her interest from her own affairs. She could remember now the hollow mechanical sound of her voice in her own ears as she had half-heartedly gone on, tempted to turn the picture of her wild revolt into reality. The paragraph, seemingly forgotten but merely buried under other memories, had told of the disappearance on board the monarchic of certain pearls and diamonds which were being secretly brought from New York to London by an agent of a great jewelry firm. He had been blamed by the chief officer for not handing the valuables over to the purser. The unfortunate man, who had not advertised the fact that he was an agent for Van Vrecken Company until he had had to complain of the theft, excused this seeming carelessness by the statement that he had hoped his identity might pass unexpected. His theory was that safety lay in insignificance. He had engaged a small, cheap cabin for himself alone, taking an assumed name, had pretended to be a schoolmaster on holiday, and had worn the pearls and other things always on his person in a money-belt. Even at night he had kept the belt on his body, a revolver under his pillow, and the door of his cabin locked, with an extra patent adjustable lock of his own invented by a member of the firm he served. It had not seemed probable that he would be recognized, or possible, that he could be robbed. Yet one morning he had waked late with a dull headache and sensation of sickness, to find that his door, though closed, was unfastened, and that all his most valuable possessions were missing from the belt. Some were left as though the thief had fastidiously made his selection, scorning to trouble himself with anything but the best. The mystery of the affair was increased by the fact that, though the man, Ansley vaguely recalled some odd name, like Jekyll or Jedkill, felt certain he had fastened the door, there was no sign that it had been forced open. His patent-detachable lock, however, had disappeared, like the jewels. And despite the sensation of sickness, and pain in the head, there were no symptoms of drugging by chloroform, or any odor of chloroform, or other anesthetic in the room. It struck Ansley as strange, almost terrifying, that these details of the monarchic sensation should come back to her now, but she could not doubt that she had actually read them, and the rest of the story continued to reprint itself on her brain as the unrolling of a film might bring back to one of the actor's poses of his own which he had let slip into oblivion. She remembered how some of the more important passengers had suggested that everybody on board should be searched, even to the ship's officers, sailors, and employees of all sorts, that the search had been made and nothing found, but that a lady supposed to possess clairvoyant powers had offered Mr. Jekyll, or Jedkill, to consult her crystal for his benefit. She had done so, and had seen wireless messages passing between someone on the monarchic and someone on another ship with whom the former person appeared to be in collusion. She had seen a small, fair man, dressed as a woman, hypnotizing the jeweler's agent into the belief that he was locking his door, when instead he was leaving it unlocked. Then she had seen this man who, she asserted firmly, was dressed like a woman, walk into his victim's cabin, hypnotize him into still deeper unconsciousness, and take from his belt three long strings of pearls and several magnificent diamonds, set and unset. These things she saw made up into a bundle, wrapped in waterproof cloth, attached to a faintly illuminated life-preserver, and thrown overboard. Almost immediately after she said, the life-preserver was picked up by a man in a small motor-launch, let down from a steam-yacht. The launch quickly returned to the yacht, was taken up, and the yacht made off in the darkness. No life-belt was missing from the monarchic, and even if suspicion could be entertained against any small, fair man, which was not the case, apparently. There was no justification for a search. Therefore, although a good many people believed in the seer's vision, it proved nothing, and the sensational affair remained as deep a mystery as ever when the monarchic docked. The Countess de Santiago was the woman who looked in the crystal, Ansley said to herself. She wondered why, if Knight had been vexed with the Countess for speaking of their friendship and of the monarchic as he had once seemed to be, he should refer to it before these strangers. She looked down the table, passed the other faces to his face, and the thought that came to her mind was how simple and almost meaningless the rest were compared to his. Among the fourteen guests, seven women and seven men, though some had charm or distinction, his face alone was complex, mysterious, and baffling. Yet she loved it, now more than ever, she loved and admired it. The dinner ended with a discussion between Knight and Constance, as to how the Countess de Santiago could be induced to pay a visit to Valley House, despite the fact that she had never met Lord and Lady Ansley Seaton. Like most women who had lived in Spanish countries, the Countess was rather a stickler for etiquette, her friend Nelson Smith announced, besides, her experience as an amateur clairvoyant made her quick to resent anything which had the air of patronage. One must go delicately to work to think out a scheme if Lady Ansley Seaton were really in dead earnest about wanting her to come. At this point Knight reflected for a minute, while everyone hung upon his silence, and at last he had an inspiration. I'll tell you what we can do, he exclaimed. My wife and I—you're willing, aren't you, Anita?—can ask her to stay over this weekend with us. I think she'll come if she isn't engaged, and we can invite you to meet her at dinner. Oh, you must invite us all, pleaded a pretty woman, sitting next to Knight. All of you who care to come certainly he agreed, won't we, Anita? Oh, of course, it will be splendid if everybody will dine with us. Ansley backed him up with one of the girlish blushes that made her seem so young and ingenuously attractive. We can send a telegram to the Countess. She did her best to speak enthusiastically and succeeded. No one saved Knight and Constance, guessed it was an effort. Knight saw and was grateful. Constance saw also, and smiled to herself, at what she fancied was the girl's jealousy of an old friend of the new husband. An old friend who was one of the most beautiful women the girl had seen. Ansley's hesitation inclined Constance to be more interested than ever in the Countess de Santiago. CHAPTER XII. THE CRYSTAL. Motoring back from Valley House to the Knoll Hotel, Ansley was asking herself whether she might dare refer to the monarchic, and mention the story she had read in the morning post. She burned to do so, yet stopped each time a question pressed to her lips, remembering Knight's eyes as he had looked at the Countess in the Savoy restaurant the day before the wedding. Perhaps the wish would have conquered if some imp had not whispered, what about that purple envelope addressed in a woman's handwriting? Maybe it was from her hinting to see him again, and that is what has put this plan into his head. Perhaps he brought up the subject of the Countess on purpose to make them invite her here. This thought caused the Countess de Santiago to seem a powerful person with an influence overnight, though he had appeared not to care for her. Could it be that he wanted an excuse to have her near him? The suggestion closed Ansley's mouth by making her afraid that she was turning into a suspicious creature like jealous bride she had read about. She determined to be silent as a self-punishment, and firmly steered the monarchic into a backwater of her thoughts, while Knight talked of the Valley House Party and their credulous superstition. Every man-jack and every woman-gill of the lot believed in that crystal in the clairvoyant nonsense, he laughed. I mentioned it for fun, but I went on simply to pull their legs. I hope you don't mind having the Countess down, do you, child? Of course I made it out to be a favor that so wonderful a being should consent to come at call, but between us and Eda the poor woman will fall over herself with joy. She's a restless, lonely creature who has drifted about the world without stopping anywhere long enough to make friends, and I have a notion that her heart's desire is to get into society in England. This will give her a chance, because these good ladies and gentlemen who are dying to see what she's like and persuade her to tell their pasts and futures are at the top of the tree. It's a cheap way for us to make her happy, and we can afford it. Don't you believe she really is clairvoyant and sees things in her crystal?" Annaslee ventured. It was then that Knight made her heart beat by answering with a question. Didn't you read in the newspapers about the queer thing that happened on board the monarchic? Yes, I did read it, the girl said, and so stifled a voice that the reply became a confession. Why didn't you tell me so? Because the day I heard you were on the monarchic I couldn't remember what I'd read. It was vague in my mind, no other reason. Only that—that—I fancied—you fancied I didn't like to talk about the monarchic? Well, when the Countess spoke of it you looked cross. I was cross, but only with the way she spoke, as if she and I had come over together because we were pals. That's all, though I've every cost to hate the memory of that trip. When did you remember what you had read in the newspapers? Only this evening. I thought so, at dinner. I saw a look come over your face. I didn't know you noticed me.  Well, you remembered about a man on board being robbed and a lady, an amateur clairvoyant, seeing things in a crystal. I thought it must have been the Countess de Santiago. It was, though her name was kept out of the papers by her request. She's sensitive about the clairvoyant stuff, afraid people may consider her a professional, and look down on her from patronizing social heights. Of course I suppose it's nonsense about seeing things in a glass ball, but I believe she does contrive to take it seriously, for she seems an earnest. She did tell people on board ship things about themselves, true things they said and they ought to know. As for the jewel affair, he added, nobody could be sure if there was anything in her visions, but people thought them extraordinary, even the captain, a hard-headed old chap. You see, a yacht had been sighted the evening before the robbery while the passengers were at dinner. It might have kept near with lights out, for the monarchic is one of the huge, slow-going giants, and the yacht might have been a regular little greyhound. It seems she didn't answer signals. The captain hadn't thought much of that, because there was a slight fog, and she could have missed them. But it came back to him afterwards, and seemed to bear out the Countess's rigamarole. Besides, there was the finding of the Patton Lock, where she told the man Jedfield he ought to look for it. I don't remember that in the paper. It was in several, if not all. She saw the missing lock, a thing that goes over a bolt and prevents it sliding back, in one of the life-boats upon the boat-deck, caught in the canvas covering. Well, it was there, and there could be no suspicion of her putting the thing where it was found, so as to make herself seem a true prophetess. She couldn't have got to the place. That's why people were so impressed with the rest of the visions. We're all inclined to be superstitious. Even I was interested. Though I don't pin my faith in such things, I asked her to look into the crystal and see if she could tell me what had become of my gold repeater, which disappeared the same night. Oh! exclaimed Annasly, so you had something stolen? It looked like it. Anyhow the watch went, and the Countess lost a ring during the trip, a valuable one, I believe. She couldn't see anything for herself, but she got a glimpse of my repeater in the pocket of a red waistcoat. Nobody on board confessed to a red waistcoat, and in the searching of passenger's luggage, which I should have proposed myself if I hadn't been among the robbed, nothing of the sort materialized. However, that proved nothing. Jedfield's pearls and other trinkets must have been somewhere on board in someone's possession, if the yacht vision wasn't true, yet the strictest search gave no sign of them. It was a miracle how they were disposed of, unless they were thrown overboard and picked up by someone in the plot, as the Countess said. Is that why you hate to think of the trip, because you lost your watch? Annasly asked. Yes, just that.  I left the repeater under my pillow when I got up in the middle of the night to go on deck, thinking I heard a cry. I couldn't have heard one, for nobody was there, and next morning, when I went to look at the time, my watch was equally invisible. Then there was the business of the passengers being searched, and the everlasting talk about the whole business. One got sick and tired of it. I got tired of the Countess and her crystal, too, but the effect is passing away now. I expect I can stand her, if you can. Annasly said that she would be interested. She refrained from adding that she did not intend to make use of the CRS's gift for her own benefit. The Countess de Santiago wired her acceptance of the invitation and appeared at the Noel Hotel on Saturday with the maid and a good deal of luggage. Annasly had secretly feared that the effect of the beautiful lady on the guests of the hotel would be overpowering, and had pictured her brilliantly colored and exquisitely dressed, breaking like a sunburst upon the dining room at lunch and time. As she had underrated the Countess's cleverness and sense of propriety, the lady arrived in a neat, tailor-made traveling dress of russet-brown tweed which, with a plain toke of brown velvet and fur, cooled the ready flame of her hair. It seemed to Annasly also that her lips were less red than before, and though she was as remarkable as ever for her beauty, she was not now to be remarked from meritriciousness. She was pleasanter in manner, too, as well as in appearance, and Annasly's heart, which had difficulty in hardening itself for long, was touched by the Countess's thanks for the invitation. You are so happy and wrapped up in each other, I didn't expect you to give me a thought, the beautiful woman said. You don't know what it means to be asked down here after so many lonely days in town, and to find that you and Don are going to give me some new friends. This note, which Knight had also struck in explaining the Countess's heart's desire, was the right note to enlist Annasly's sympathy. One might have thought that both had guessed this. Annasly and Knight gave their dinner-party in a private room adjoining their own sitting-room, and connected also with another smaller room, which they had fitted up for a special purpose. This purpose was to enshrine the CRS and her crystal. As Knight had said, she seemed to take her clairvoyant power seriously, and insisted that she could do herself justice only in a room arranged in a certain way. In the afternoon she directed that the furniture should be removed, with the exception of one small table and two chairs. Even the pictures had to be taken down, and under the Countess's supervision purple velvet draperies had to be put up, covering the walls and window. These draperies she had brought with her as they had curtain rings sewn on the upper edge, which could be attached to picture hooks or nails. From the same trunk came also a white silk table cover embroidered in gold with figures representing the signs of the zodiac. There were in addition three purple velvet cushions, two for the chairs, and one, the Countess explained, for the table, to make an arm rest. By her further desire a large number of hot-house lilies in pots were sent for, and ranged on the floor round the walls. As for the turpish carpet of banal reds, blues, and greens, it had to be concealed under rugs of black fur which, luckily, the hotel possessed in plenty. It was all very mysterious and exciting, and honestly could imagine the effective background these contrivances would give the shining figure of the Countess. When later on she saw her guest dressed for dinner, the girl realized even more vividly the genius of the artist who had planned the picture. For the Countess de Santiago wore a clinging gown made in Greek fashion, of a supple white material shot with interwoven silver threads. She wore her copper red hair in a classic knot with a wreath of emerald laurel leaves. She would gleam like a moonlit stature in her lily-perfumed purple shrine, anisly thought, and was not surprised that the lady should achieve an instant success with the country folk who had begged for an invitation to meet her. The Countess de Santiago did not seem to mind answering questions about her powers, which everyone asked across the dinner table. She said that since her seventh birthday she had been able, under certain circumstances, to see hidden things in people's lives and future events. Her first experience as a child was being shut up in a darkened room and looking into a mirror where figures and scenes appeared like waking dreams. She had been frightened and screamed to be let out. Her mother had taken pity and released her, saying that after all it was what might be expected from the seventh child of a seventh child born on All Saints Eve. The Nelson Smith's guest listened breathlessly to every word and were enchanted when she promised to give each man and woman a short sitting with her crystal after dinner. Nothing was said about the purple room so that the surprise could not help being impressive. It was a delightful dinner, well thought out between the host and the head waiter, but no one wished to linger over it. Never had bridge friends been so eager to get to work as these people were to take their turn with the Countess and her crystal. At Lady Annesley Seton's suggestion they drew lots for these turns, and Constance herself drew the first chance. She and the gleaming figure of the Countess went out together, and ten or twelve minutes later she returned alone. Everyone stared eagerly to see if she looked excited, and it took no stretch of imagination to find her face flushed and her eyes dilated. Well, has she told you anything wonderful? A clamor of voices joined in the question. Yes, she has, replied Constance. She's simply uncanny. She could pick up a fortune in London in one season if she were a professional. She has told me in what sort of place the heirlooms are now, but that we shall never see them again. So saying, Lady Annesley Seton plumped down on a sofa beside her hostess, as the next person hurried off to plunge into the mysteries. I feel quite weak in the knees, Constance whispered to Annesley. Has she told you anything? No, said the girl. I don't want to know things. She might have added things told by her, but she did not say this. Constance shivered. The woman frightened me with what she knew. I mean, not about our robbery, that's a trifle, but about the past. Most of her seems to be a sort of town-topics, but I must say she didn't foretell any horrors for the future, not for me personally. If she goes on as she's begun she can do what she likes with us all. Dear little Anne, you must ask her often to your house when you're finding your feet, and I'm helping you in London. I prophesy that she'll prove an attraction, why it would pay to have a room fitted up for her in purple and black, with relays of fresh lilies. But she made up her mind that, if a room were done in purple and black with relays of lilies anywhere for the Countess de Santiago, it would not be in her house. Unless, of course, Knight begged it of her as a favour. And even then, but somehow she didn't believe, despite certain appearances, that Knight was anxious to have his old friend near him. He had the air of one who was paying a debt, and she remembered how he had said, on the day of their wedding, we will find a time to pay back the favours they've done us. This visit and dinner and introduction to society was perhaps his way of paying the Countess. Only was it payment in full, or an installment? Anne'sly wondered. Vaguely she wondered also what had become of Dr. Torrance and the Marchesta Morello. Would the next payment be for them, and what form would it take? She was far from guessing. There was no anti-climax that night in the success of the Countess with her clients. They were deeply impressed, and even startled. Not one woman said to herself that she had been tricked into giving the CRS a lead. There was nothing in the past hidden from that crystal and the dark eyes which gazed into it. As for the future, her predictions were remarkable, and she must have given people flattering accounts of their characters as everyone thought the analysis correct. What a pity the women whispered that such an astonishing person was not a professional, who could be paid in cash. As it was, she would expect to be rewarded with invitations, and though she was presentable, you know, my dear, she's frightfully pretty, the red-haired sort, that's the most dangerous, not a bit safe to have about one's men. Still, no price is too high. We shall all be fighting for her, or over her. And before the evening had come to an end, the Countess to Santiago had several invitations for town and country houses. To be sure they were rather informal, but the beautiful lady knew when to be lenient, and so she accepted them all. She told me that our stolen things are hidden away forever, and that will be robbed again, Connie said to her husband, on the way back to Valley House. She told me the same thing, said Dick, and I hope to goodness we may be. We've done jolly well out of that last affair. Yes, his wife agreed. The only thing I don't like about it is the mystery. It makes me feel as if something might be hanging over one's head. Over the trustees' heads, laughed Lord Anasly Seton, I wish the other knight could be, with the Countess' calls, the first of a series.  What was she talking about? She was looking in her crystal, answered Dick, slowly, as if something he had seen rose again before his eyes. Constance was pricked with curiosity. You might tell me what the woman said, she exclaimed. You haven't told me what message she had for you. I've just said that she prophesied we should be robbed again. That's only one thing. What about the rest? Oh, a lot of stuff which wouldn't interest you. You can keep your secret, and I'll keep mine, remarked Dick Anasly Seton aggravatingly. Anyhow, for the present, we'll see how it works out. See how what works out, his wife echoed.