a little sharp breath. She heard the window ever so gently
latched. Suddenly the light blazed out from the room and then, strip by
strip, vanished, as if the curtains had been cautiously drawn. The
garden, the house resumed its aspect of quiet; all was as it had been
when Jenny Prask first lifted the window of the corridor. Jenny Prask
crept cautiously away.

"Fancy that!" she said to herself, with a little chuckle of triumph.

In the room below Mario Escobar and Joan Whitworth were talking.

CHAPTER XXV

IN A LIBRARY

"You insisted that I should see you. You have something to say to me,"
said Joan. She was breathing more quickly than usual and the blood
fluttered in her cheeks, but she faced Mario Escobar with level eyes,
and spoke without a tremor in her voice. So far everything had happened
just as she had planned. There were these few difficult minutes now to
be grappled with, and afterwards the ordeal would be ended, that foolish
chapter in her life altogether closed. "Will you please be quick?" she
pleaded.

But Mario Escobar was in no hurry to answer. He had never imagined that
Joan Whitworth could look so beautiful. He had never dreamed that she
would take so much trouble. Mario Escobar understood women's clothes,
and his eyes ran with a sensation of pleasure over her delicate frock
with its shining bands, its embroidery of silver and flounces of fine
lace, down to her slim brocaded shoes. He had not, indeed, thought very
much of her in the days when Linda Spavinsky was queen. She had been a
sort of challenge to him, because of her aloofness, her indifference.
Women were his profession, and here was a queer outlandish one whom it
would be amusing to parade as his. So he had set to work; he had a sense
of art, he could talk with ingenuity on artistic matters, and he had
flattered Joan by doing so; but always with a certain definite laughter
and contempt for her. Now her beauty rather swept him off his feet. He
looked at her in amazement. Why this change? And--the second question
for ever in his mind--how could he profit by it?

"I don't understand," he said slowly, feeling his way. "We were good
friends--very good friends." Joan neither denied nor agreed. "We had
certain things in common, a love of art, of the finer things of life. I
made enemies, of course, in consequence. Your racing friends----" He
paused. "Milly Splay, who would have matched you with some dull,
tiresome squire accustomed to s