superscriptions as he threw aside his travelling surtout for a more
appropriate dress.

If, in his impatience to see Mademoiselle Dorine, the cars had appeared
to walk, the fiacre which he had secured at the station appeared to
creep. At last it turned into the Place Vendome, and drew up before M.
Dorine's residence. The door opened as Philip's foot touched the first
step. The servant silently took his cloak and hat, with a special
deference, Philip thought; but was he not now one of the family?

"M. Dorine," said the servant slowly, "is unable to see Monsieur at
present. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the _salon_."

"Is Mademoiselle--"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Alone?"

"Alone, Monsieur," repeated the man, looking curiously at Philip, who
could scarcely repress an exclamation of pleasure.

It was the first time that such a privilege had been accorded him. His
interviews with Julie had always taken place in the presence of M.
Dorine, or some member of the household. A well-bred Parisian girl has
but a formal acquaintance with her lover.

Philip did not linger on the staircase; his heart sang in his bosom as
he flew up the steps, two at a time. Ah! this wine of air which one
drinks at twenty, and seldom after! He hastened through the softly
lighted hall, in which he detected the faint scent of her favorite
flowers, and stealthily opened the door of the _salon_.

The room was darkened. Underneath the chandelier stood a slim black
casket on trestles. A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white flowers
were on a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead.

When M. Dorine heard the indescribable cry that rang through the silent
house, he hurried from the library, and found Philip standing like a
ghost in the middle of the chamber.

It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details of
the calamity that had befallen him. On the previous night Mademoiselle
Dorine had retired to her room in seemingly perfect health. She
dismissed her maid with a request to be awakened early the next morning.
At the appointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mademoiselle Dorine
was sitting in an arm-chair, apparently asleep. The candle had burnt
down to the socket; a book lay half open on the carpet at her feet. The
girl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and that
her mistress still wore an evening dress. She rushed to Mademoiselle
Dorine's side. It was not slumber. It was death.

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