"--

"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; with a light heart, he went up
the steps, two at a time, 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 sudden 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 Mile. Dorine
had retired to her room in seemingly perfect health, and had dismissed
her maid with a request to be awakened early the next morning. At the
appointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mile. Dorine was sitting in
an arm-chair, apparently asleep. The candle in the _bougeoir_ 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 Mile. Dorine's
side. It was not slumber; it was death.

Two messages were at once despatched to Philip, one to the station at
G------, the other to his hotel. The first missed him on the road, the
second he had neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house,
the valet, under the supposition that Wentworth had been advised of
Mile. Dorine's death, broke the intelligence with awkward cruelty, by
showing him directly to the salon. Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty,
the suddenness of her death, and the romance that had in some way
attached itself to her love for the young American drew crowds to
witness the funeral ceremonies, which took place in the church in the
Rue d'Aguesseau. The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in the
cemetery of Montmartre.

This tomb requires a few words of des