He went to his room and lay down, to soothe his nerves and
think of an excuse to return to London early on Monday morning.

As soon as his meagre back was turned Knight stooped and retrieved the
letter in its envelope, unscorched, from the fireplace. There was nothing
about it--not even a tell-tale perfume--to give any clue to the writer.

Nevertheless, Knight considered it of value. He intended to use it as a
bluff to frighten the Countess de Santiago, for only through her own fear
could he prove her treachery.

Most of the guests at Valley House went to church, to give thanks for
the fairy-like Easter eggs they had received. Annesley had a headache,
however, and no one was surprised that her husband should choose to stop
at home to look after her.

His adoring devotion for the girl was no secret. People laughed at it,
but admired it, too, and some women envied Annesley. They imagined him
spending the morning with his wife, but as a matter of fact he did not
go near her. He feared to speak lest she might change her decision and
refuse to travel to America with him.

His one hope--a desperate hope--lay in her going. He decided not to see
her alone again until Monday evening, after the arrival of the cable from
America.

In order to insure the coming of this message, and to make it realistic,
he motored into Torquay and sent a long telegram, partly in cipher.
Returning, he had a conversation with Charrington, the butler, and Char,
the chauffeur, a conversation which left the brothers grave and subdued.
Later Char went off in the car again, though it poured with rain, and was
gone until late at night.

Between twelve and one o'clock Knight, strolling toward the garage, heard
the automobile return, and stopped in the blaze of the acetylene for the
motor to slow down.

"Is it all right?" he inquired.

"It's all right," Char answered, somewhat sullenly, yet with a certain
reluctant respect. "Nothing will happen here Monday night."

"Good!" his master answered, and smiled at the thought of Madalena's
malicious prophecy which would not be fulfilled. It was not a pleasant
smile, yet, as he had said to Annesley, he planned no revenge against
the tigress--the woman whose claws had ripped his heart open.

Tigress or no, she was a woman, and he knew that, as far as she was
capable of caring, she had cared for him.

Perhaps it had been partly his fault. She was handsome, and had been
years younger when he had met her