ged. My next difficulty was to get speech with
you. Happily, a half sovereign and an intelligent waiter solved that
problem. When Richford followed you I had to borrow that tray and the
rest of it and disburse another half sovereign. Then I saw that my old
friend Berrington had come to my rescue. Did you tell him, Beatrice?"

"He saw the message on the wine card and recognized your handwriting.
But I shall not be able to stay much longer, Mark. Those people may come
into the drawing-room at any moment. This must be our last meeting."

"I am not going to be so sure of that, Beatrice. What I have to say to
your father must move him. The idea of your being the wife of that
man--but I will not think of it. Oh, love will find the way even at this
very late hour."

Mark would have said more, only there was the flutter of a dress in the
drawing-room beyond, and the echo of a laugh. The dinner guests were
coming into the drawing-room. With a quick motion, Mark snatched the
girl to his heart and kissed her passionately.

"Good night, darling," he whispered. "Keep up your courage. Who knows
what may happen between now and twelve o'clock to-morrow? And after I
have seen your father----"

Another kiss, and the lover was gone. Beatrice lay back in her chair
striving to collect her thoughts. Everything seemed to have happened so
suddenly and unexpectedly. There were people about her now who were
asking smoothly sympathetic questions in the hollow insincerity of the
world.

"I'm no better," Beatrice said. "If my aunt is ready I should like to go
home. My father will stay and see that you get your bridge all right."

Beatrice had gone at length with Lady Rashborough, the rest of the
guests had finished their bridge, and the party was breaking up. Mark
Ventmore was sitting, smoking cigarettes in his bedroom, waiting for the
chance to see Sir Charles. It was getting very late now, and all the
guests had long since been in their rooms. With his door open Mark could
see into the corridor.

Then he gave a little whistle of astonishment as the door of Sir
Charles's sitting-room opened and the grey lady, the Slave of the Bond
of Silence, came out. She was dressed just as Mark had seen her before;
as she walked along, her face was calm and placid. She came at length to
the end of the corridor and disappeared quietly and deliberately down
the stairs. With a feeling of curiosity, Mark crossed over and tried the
handle of Sir Charles's d