wheels, the color scheme was profligate.

Benton idled at one of the tables, his eyes searching the crowd in the
faint hope of discovering some thread which he might follow up to
definite conclusion. Beyond the wheel, just at the _croupier's_ elbow,
stood a woman, audaciously yet charmingly gowned in red, with a
scale-like shimmer of passementerie. A red rose in her black hair threw
into conspicuous effect its intense luster.

She might have been the genius of _Rouge et Noir_. Her litheness had the
panther's sinuous strength. The vivid contrast of olive cheeks, carmine
lips and dark eyes, gave stress to her slender sensuousness.

Hers was the allurement of poppy and passion-flower. In her movements
was suggestion of vital feminine force.

Perhaps the incurious glance of the American made itself felt, for as
she threw down a fresh _louis d'or_, she looked up and their eyes met.
For an instant her expression was almost that of one who stifles an
impulse to recognize another. Possibly, thought Benton, she had mistaken
him for someone else.

"_Mon dieu_," whispered a voice in French, "the Comptessa d'Astaride is
charming this evening."

"Ah, such wit! Such charm!" enthused another voice at Benton's back.
"She is most perfect in those gowns of unbroken lines, with a single
rose." Evidently the men left the tables at once, for Benton heard no
more. He also turned away a moment later to make way for an Italian in
whose feverish eyes burned the roulette-lust. He went to the farthest
end of the gardens, where there was deep shadow, and a seaward outlook
over the cliff wall. There the glare of electric bulbs and blazing
doorways was softened, and the orchestra's music was modulated.
Presently he was startled by a ripple of laughter at his shoulder, low
and rich in musical vibrance.

"Ah, it is not like this in your gray, fog-wrapped country."

Benton wheeled in astonishment to encounter the dazzling smile of the
Countess Astaride. She was standing slender as a young girl, all agleam
in the half-light as though she wore an armor of glowing copper and
garnets.

"I beg your pardon," stammered the American, but she laid a hand lightly
on his arm and smilingly shook her head.

"I know, Monsieur Martin, we have not met, but you were with the Duke at
Cadiz. You have come in his interest. In his cause, I acknowledge no
conventions." In her voice was the fusing of condescension and regal
graciousness. "It was wise," she though