te perfection of her neck. Her softly
rounded face looked absurdly childlike under the tall-crowned hennin,
from which a wispy veil floated behind her as she moved.

In silence, then, for a spell, the German mercenary pondered her with
those slowly kindling eyes, that slowly spreading, indefinite smile.
Then he stirred, and to his secretary he muttered shortly:

"The woman lies. In private I may snare the truth from her."

He rose--a tall, massively imposing figure in a low-girdled tunic of
deep purple velvet, open at the breast, and gold-laced across a white
silken undervest.

"There is some evidence," he informed her gruffly. "Come with me, and
you shall see it for yourself."

He led the way from that cheerless hall by a dark corridor to a
small snug room, richly hung and carpeted, where a servant waited. He
dismissed the fellow, and in the same breath bade her enter, watching
her the while from under lowered brows. One of her women had followed;
but admittance was denied her. Danvelt's wife must enter his room alone.

Whilst she waited there, with scared eyes and fluttering bosom, he went
to take from an oaken coffer the letter signed "Philip Danvelt." He
folded the sheet so that the name only was to be read, and came to
thrust it under her eyes.

"What name is that?" he asked her gruffly.

Her answer was very prompt.

"It is my husband's, but not the writing--it is another hand; some other
Philip Danvelt; there will be others in Zeeland."

He laughed softly, looking at her ever with that odd intentness, and
under his gaze she shrank and cowered in terror; it spoke to her of some
nameless evil; the tepid air of the luxurious room was stifling her.

"If I believed you, your husband would be delivered from his
prison--from all danger; and he stands, I swear to you, in mortal
peril."

"Ah, but you must believe me. There are others who can bear witness."

"I care naught for others," he broke in, with harsh and arrogant
contempt. Then he softened his voice to a lover's key. "But I might
accept your word that this is not your husband's hand, even though I did
not believe you."

She did not understand, and so she could only stare at him with those
round, brown eyes of hers dilating, her lovely cheeks blanching with
horrid fear.

"Why, see," he said at length, with an easy, gruff good-humour, "I place
the life of Philip Danvelt in those fair hands to do with as you please.
Surely, sweeting, you will not be