l probably return
late, so we will breakfast here to-morrow morning, if you like, at
half-past twelve. I will send a note to your room when I am ready."

She looked him in the eyes.

"Peter," she said, "supposing that note doesn't come!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear Violet," he said, "you and I--or rather I, for you are not
concerned in this--live a life which is a little different from the
lives of most of the people around us. The million pay their taxes, and
they expect police protection in times of danger. For me there is
no such resource. My life has its own splendid compensations. I have
weapons with which to fight any ordinary danger. What I want to explain
to you is this--that if you hear no more of me, you can do nothing. If
that note does not come to you in the morning, you can do nothing. Wait
here for three days, and after that go back to England. You will find a
letter on your desk, telling you there exactly what to do."

"You have something in your mind," she said, "of which you have not told
me."

"I have nothing," he answered, firmly. "Upon my honor, I know of no
possible cause of offense which our friends could have against me. Their
summons is, I will admit, somewhat extraordinary, but I go to obey
it absolutely without fear. You can sleep well, Violet. We lunch here
to-morrow, without a doubt."

They drove back to the hotel almost in silence. Violet was looking
fixedly out of the window of the taxicab, as though interested in
watching the crowds upon the street. Peter Ruff appeared to be absorbed
in his own thoughts. Yet perhaps they were both of them nearer to
one another than either surmised. Their parting in the hall of the
Continental Hotel was unemotional enough. For a moment Peter Ruff had
hesitated while her hand had lain in his. He had opened his lips as
though he had something to say. Her eyes grew suddenly softer--seemed to
seek his as though begging for those unspoken words. But Peter Ruff did
not say them then.

"I shall be back all right," he said. "Good night, Violet! Sleep well!"

He turned back towards the waiting taxicab.

"Number 16, Rue de St. Quintaine," he told the man. It was not a long
ride. In less than a quarter of an hour, Peter Ruff presented himself
before a handsome white house in a quiet, aristocratic-looking street.
At his summons, the postern door flew open, and a man-servant in plain
livery stood at the second entrance.

"Madame la Marquise?" Pet