had
indeed changed appallingly in the last six or eight months, and there
was a tremulous movement about his well-cut mouth that was alarming.

"Yes, Gerald, I'll ask her. I--I am awfully sorry for you."

"Thanks. As far as that's concerned, everybody in the world ought to be
sorry for everybody else. We all have our little private hell. When is
the--is the wedding-day fixed?"

"Oh, no," she returned hastily, "dear me, no. She is in no hurry to
marry, and he is, of course, dough in her hands. You, at least, needn't
worry about that. Will you dine here?"

"Sorry----"

"She is to be here, and Joyselle. Theo is out of town."

Carron rose and hesitated. "Do you think she'd mind?" he asked
piteously. A sharp pang touched her worldly heart. If, years ago, she
had let him go? If she had not made him give up diplomacy because she
wanted him in England? He would, doubtless, have divorced his impossible
wife, and married, and this would not have come to him.

"Of course she won't mind. Does she know that you love her?"

He nodded. She stared, and then rang the bell. "Bring Mr. Carron a
brandy and soda, Fledge; he is not well."

She went to the window and stood looking out into the quiet street until
the man had returned and she heard Carron set down the empty glass.

Then, without looking at him, she came back. Her shallow soul was
dismayed.

"Dinner at 8.30?" he asked after a pause.

"Yuss. Good-bye till then, for I must fly and make some calls."

"Good-bye, Tony. You are sure that boy isn't coming? I--I am getting to
hate him----"

"Nonsense," she laughed harshly, for she was not merry; "he isn't even
invited. He is in the country, I tell you."

"Then, _au 'voir_."

"_Au 'voir_, Gerry."

He went away, feeling that his cause perhaps was not utterly hopeless.

And in her gaudy bedroom, in the caravanserai that had been her idea of
luxury, his wife lay dead.

CHAPTER EIGHT

When the women had left the dining-room Carron got up from his place and
sat down by Joyselle, who looked at him with unconcealed astonishment.
He had never liked Carron, and knew that the man did not like him.

"When is your next concert to be, M. Joyselle?"

"The third of June."

"I--I always come. I have come for years, and last June I heard you in
Paris. You must like playing with Colonne."

"I do. He is a wonderful director. But--I did not know that you liked
music, Mr. Carron."

"I have always liked it. And no one