you.-- Always your friend, and
never more than now,

"SOPHIE BERNSTEIN."

Browne read this curious epistle three times, and each time was farther
from being able to understand it. What was this matter upon which
Madame Bernstein desired to consult him? Could it have any connection
with Katherine? If not, what else could it possibly be? And why did
she call herself his friend, and wind up with "and never more than
now"? It had one good point, however; it would, in all probability,
furnish him with another opportunity of seeing the girl he loved. And
yet there were twenty hours to be disposed of before he could possibly
keep the appointment. Never in his life had time seemed so long.

Punctually to the minute he arrived at the door of the commonplace
building in the Rue Jacquarie. The _concierge_ looked out from her
cubby-hole at him, and inquired his business. In reply he asked the
number of Madame Bernstein's rooms, and, having been informed, went
upstairs in search of them. He had not very far to go, however, for he
encountered madame herself on the landing half-way up.

"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, holding out her hand with an impetuous
gesture, that was as theatrical as her usual behaviour, "this is most
kind of you to come to see me so promptly. I know that I am
trespassing both upon your good nature and your time."

"I hope you will not mention that," said Browne politely. "If I can be
of any use to you, I think you know you may command me."

"It is not for myself that I have asked you to come," she answered.
"But do not let us talk here. Will you not accompany me to my rooms?"

She accordingly led the way up the next flight of stairs and along a
corridor to a room that was half drawing-room half boudoir. Madame
carefully closed the door, and then bade him be seated. Browne took
possession of an easy-chair, wondering what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER IX

"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herself
with her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what is
better still, without fear of being disturbed. It is indeed kind of
you to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised at
receiving my poor little note yesterday. What you must have thought of
it I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection,
that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happiness
is dearer to me than I can make you understa