ans the
murderer will be brought to justice. To this I have devoted my life--in
your service."

He put his hand on the spot of his tightly buttoned frock-coat that
covered his heart, and bowed profoundly. It was obvious that he resented
our presence and desired to wipe us out of our hostess's consideration.
I glanced ironically at Dale's disgusted face, and smiled at the
imperfect development of his sense of humour. Indeed, to the young,
humour is only a weapon of offence. It takes a philosopher to use it as
defensive armour. Dale burned to outdo Mr. Papadopoulos. I, having
no such ambition, laid my hand on his arm and went forward to take my
leave.

"Madame Brandt," said I, "old friends have doubtless much to talk
over. I thank you for the privilege you have afforded me of making your
acquaintance."

She rose and accompanied us to the landing outside the flat door.
After saying good-bye to Dale, who went down with his boyish tread, she
detained me for a second or two, holding my hand, and again her clasp
enveloped it like some clinging sea-plant. She looked at me very
wistfully.

"The next time you come, Mr. de Gex, do come as a friend and not as an
enemy."

I was startled. I thought I had conducted the interview with peculiar
suavity.

"An enemy, dear lady?"

"Yes. Can't I see it?" she said in her languorous, caressing voice. "And
I should love to have you for a friend. You could be such a good one. I
have so few."

"I must argue this out with you another time," said I diplomatically.

"That's a promise," said Lola Brandt.

"What's a promise?" asked Dale, when I joined him in the hall.

"That I will do myself the pleasure of calling on Madame again."

The porter whistled for a cab. A hansom drove up. As my destination was
the Albany, and as I knew Dale was going home to Eccleston Square, I
held out my hand.

"Good-bye, Dale. I'll see you to-morrow."

"But aren't you going to tell me what you think of her?" he cried in
great dismay.

The pavement was muddy, the evening dark, and a gusty wind blew the
drizzle into our faces. It is only the preposterously young who expect
a man to rhapsodise over somebody else's inamorata at such a moment. I
turned up the fur collar of my coat.

"She is good-looking," said I.

"Any idiot can see that!" he burst out impatiently. "I want to know what
opinion you formed of her."

I reflected. If I could have labelled her as the Scarlet Woman, the
Martyred Saint, t