moment on Desmond's face, "to be quite frank with you, my
dear fellow, she has been indiscreet, and the police are after
her."

"You don't say!" cried Desmond.

"Indeed, it is a fact," replied the other, "I wish she would take
you as her model, my dear Bellward. You are the pattern of
prudence, are you not?"

He paused perceptibly and Desmond held his breath.

"She has very few reputable friends," Mortimer continued
presently, "under a cloud as she is, she could hardly frequent
the company of her old associates, Mowbury and Lazarro and Mrs.
Malplaquet, you doubtless know whom I mean. I know she has a very
strong recommendation to you, so I naturally thought--well, no
matter!"

He rose and extended his hand.

"Au revoir, Bellward," he said, "you shall hear from me very
soon. You've got a snug little place here, I must say, and
everything in charming taste. I like your pretty cushions."

The blood flew to Desmond's face and he bent down, on pretense of
examining the cushions, to hide his confusion.

"They aren't bad," he said, "I got them at Harrod's!"

He accompanied Mortimer to the front door and watched him
disappear down the short drive and turn out of the gate into the
road. Then feeling strangely ill at ease, he went back to join
Nur-el-Din in the dining-room. But only the housekeeper was
there, clearing the table.

"If you're looking for the young lady, sir," said old Martha,
"she's gone out!"

"Oh!" said Desmond, with a shade of disappointment in his voice,
"will she be back for tea?"

"She's not coming back at all," answered the old woman, "she told
me to tell you she could not stop, sir. And she wouldn't let me
disturb you, neither, sir."

"But did she leave no note or anything for me?" asked Desmond.

"No, sir," answered old Martha as she folded up the cloth.

Gone! Desmond stared gloomily out at the sopping garden with an
uneasy feeling that he had failed in his duty.

CHAPTER XIII. WHAT SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDIES REVEALED

In a very depressed frame of mind, Desmond turned into the
library. As he crossed the hall, he noticed how cheerless the
house was. Again there came to him that odor of mustiness--of all
smells the most eerie and drear--which he had noticed on his
arrival. Somehow, as long as Nur-el-Din had been there, he had
not remarked the appalling loneliness of the place.

A big log fire was blazing cheerfully in the grate, throwing out
a bright glow into the room which, desp