ering-place
where he had been staying. All Paris knew Sir Cyril, and Sir Cyril
knew all Paris; he was made acquainted with the facts directly, and
the matter was left to him. A man of singular resolution, originality,
and courage, he had gone straight to the Rue Thiers, having caught a
rumor, doubtless started by the indiscreet Deschamps herself, that
Rosa would be decoyed there. The rest was mere good fortune.

In regard to the mysterious connection between Sir Cyril and Rosa, I
had at present no clue to it; nor had there been much opportunity for
conversation between Rosa and myself. We had not even spoken to each
other alone, and, moreover, I was uncertain whether she would care to
enlighten me on that particular matter; assuredly I had no right to
ask her to do so. Further, I was far more interested in another, and
to me vastly more important, question, the question of Lord Clarenceux
and his supposed death.

I was gloomily meditating upon the tangle of events, when the door of
the salon opened, and Rosa entered. She walked stiffly to a chair,
and, sitting down opposite to me, looked into my face with hard,
glittering eyes. For a few moments she did not speak, and I could not
break the silence. Then I saw the tears slowly welling up, and I was
glad for that. She was intensely moved, and less agonizing experiences
than she had gone through might easily have led to brain fever in a
woman of her highly emotional temperament.

"Why don't you leave me, Mr. Foster?" she cried passionately, and
there were sobs in her voice. "Why don't you leave me, and never see
me again?"

"Leave you?" I said softly. "Why?"

"Because I am cursed. Throughout my life I have been cursed; and the
curse clings, and it falls on those who come near me."

She gave way to hysterical tears; her head bent till it was almost on
her knees. I went to her, and gently raised it, and put a cushion at
the back of the chair. She grew calmer.

"If you are cursed, I will be cursed," I said, gazing straight at her,
and then I sat down again.

The sobbing gradually ceased. She dried her eyes.

"He is dead," she said shortly.

I made no response; I had none to make.

"You do not say anything," she murmured.

"I am sorry. Sir Cyril was the right sort."

"He was my father," she said.

"Your father!" I repeated. No revelation could have more profoundly
astonished me.

"Yes," she firmly repeated.

We both paused.

"I thought you had lost both