an muttered inaudibly.

"Mr. Mershone might be an enemy, because I laughed at his love-making,"
continued Louise, musingly. "Would a man who loved a girl try to injure
her? But perhaps his love has turned to hate. Anyhow, I can think of no
one else who would do such a thing, or of any reason why Charlie
Mershone should do it."

Madame Cerise merely grunted. She was brushing the soft hair with gentle
care.

"What could a man gain by stealing a girl? If it was Mr. Mershone, does
he imagine I could ever forget Arthur? Or cease to love him? Or that
Arthur would forget me while I am away? Perhaps it's Diana, and she
wants to get rid of me so she can coax Arthur back to her side. But
that's nonsense; isn't it, Madame Cerise? No girl--not even Diana Von
Taer--would dare to act in such a high-handed manner toward her rival.
Did you ever hear of Miss Von Taer? She's quite a society belle. Have
you ever seen her, Madame Cerise?"

The woman vouchsafed no reply to this direct enquiry, but busied herself
dressing the girl's hair. Louise casually turned over the silver-mounted
hand mirror she was holding and gave a sudden start. A monogram was
engraved upon the metal: "D.v.T." She gazed at the mark fixedly and then
picked up a brush that the Frenchwoman laid down. Yes, the same monogram
appeared upon the brush.

The sharp eyes of Cerise had noted these movements. She was a little
dismayed but not startled when Louise said, slowly: "'D.v.T.' stands for
Diana Von Taer. And it isn't likely to stand for anything else. I think
the mystery is explained, now, and my worst fears are realized. Tell me,
Madame, is this Diana Von Taer's house?"

Her eyes shone with anger and round red patches suddenly appeared upon
her pallid cheeks. Madame Cerise drew a long breath.

"It used to be," was her quiet answer. "It was left her by her
grandmother; but Mr. Von Taer did not like the place and they have not
been here lately--not for years. Miss Von Taer informed me, some time
ago, that she had transferred the property to another."

"To her cousin--Mr. Mershone?" asked Louise quickly.

"That may be the name; I cannot remember," was the evasive reply.

"But you must know him, as he is Diana's cousin," retorted Louise. "Why
will you try to deceive me? Am I not helpless enough already, and do you
wish to make me still more miserable?"

"I have seen Mr. Mershone when he was a boy, many times. He was not the
favorite with Ma'm'selle Diana, nor w