llionaire. The table decorations were red in
tone, there were red shades to the low electric lights, and masses of
red carnations everywhere. No taste, and incidentally no expense had
been spared, for Beatrice Darryll was to be married on the morrow, and
her father, Sir Charles, was giving this dinner in honour of the
occasion. Only a very rich man could afford a luxury like that.

"I think everything is complete, madame," a waiter suggested softly. "If
there is anything----"

Beatrice turned wearily from the window. She looked old and odd and
drawn just for the moment. And yet that face could ripple with delighted
smiles, the little red mouth was made for laughter. Beatrice's eyes
swept over the wealth of good taste and criminal extravagance.

"It will do very nicely," the girl said. "It will do--anything will do.
I mean you have done your work splendidly. I am more than satisfied."

The gratified, if slightly puzzled, waiter bowed himself out. The bitter
scorn in Beatrice's eyes deepened. What did all this reckless
extravagance mean? Why was it justified? The man who might have answered
the question sauntered into the room. A wonderfully well-preserved man
was Sir Charles Darryll, with a boyish smile and an air of perennial
youth unspotted by the world, a man who was totally unfitted to cope
with the hard grip and sordid side of life. There were some who said
that he was a grasping, greedy, selfish old rascal, who under the guise
of youthful integrity concealed a nature that was harsh and cruel.

"Well, my dear child," Sir Charles cried. "And are you not satisfied?
That table-setting is perfect; I never saw anything in more exquisite
taste."

"It will all have to be paid for," Beatrice said wearily. "The
money----"

"Will be forthcoming. I have no doubt of it. Whether I have it at the
bank or not I cannot for the moment say. If not, then our good friend
Stephen Richford must lend it me. My dear child, that black dress of
yours gives me quite a painful shock. Why wear it?"

Beatrice crossed over and regarded her pale reflection in the glass
opposite. The little pink nails were dug fiercely into the still pinker
flesh of her palm.

"Why not?" she asked. "Is it not appropriate? Am I not in the deepest
mourning for my lost honour? To-morrow I am going to marry a man who
from the bottom of my heart I loathe and despise. I am going to sell
myself to him for money--money to save your good name. Oh, I know that I
s