ble to get money."

"Anything else?"

"No! I spoke of myself as an old client of Johnny's, and I left money.
Afterwards, at the cafe where I lunched, I found a commissionaire who
told me more about our friend."

"Ah! What was the name of the cafe?"

"The Cafe de Paris!"

She took up a screen and held it before her face. There seemed to be
little need of it, however, for her cheeks were as pale as the white
roses by her side.

"This man Johnny, as they call him," Deyes continued, "seems to have had
his ups and downs. One big stroke of luck he had, however, which seems
to have kept him going for several years. The commissionaire was able to
tell me something about it. Shall I go on?" he asked, dropping his voice
a little.

"I should like to know what the commissionaire told you," she answered.

"Somehow or other this fellow, Johnny or Johnson as some of them called
him, was recommended to a young lady, a very young lady, who was in
Paris with an invalid chaperon."

"Stop!" she cried.

He looked at her fixedly.

"You were that young lady," he said softly. "Of course, I know that!"

"I was," she admitted. "Don't speak to me for a few moments. It was
years ago--but----"

She bent the screen which she held in her hand until the handle snapped.

"You seem," she said, "to have rather exceeded your instructions. I
simply wanted to know whether the man was in Paris or not."

He bowed.

"The man is in England," he said. "Don't you think it might be helpful
if you gave me more of your confidence, and told me why you wanted to
hear about him?"

She shook her head.

"I would sooner tell you than any one, Gilbert," she said, "but I do not
want to talk about it."

"It must be as you will, of course," he answered, "but I hope you will
always remember that you could do me no greater kindness--at any
time--than to make use of my services. I do not know everything of what
happened in Paris--about that time. I do not wish to know. I am content
to serve you--blindly."

"I will not forget that," she said softly. "If ever the necessity comes
I will remind you. There! Let that be the end of it."

She changed the subject, giving him to understand that she did not wish
to discuss it further.

"You are for Marienbad, as usual?" she asked.

"Next week," he answered. "One goes from habit, I suppose. No waters
upon the earth or under it will ever cure me!"

"Liver?" she asked.

"Heart!" he declared.

"You shouldn'