man saw that his mistress was not in the car, a
look of perplexity came over his impassive face.

"Mr. Pargeter has been awaiting you, sir, for the last half hour," he
said, "he is very anxious to catch the twelve o'clock express. The
luggage has already gone on to the station. Mr. Pargeter wished the car
to wait,--but--but is it to wait, sir?" he asked, helplessly.

"Yes," said Vanderlyn, shortly, "the car had better wait. Where is Mr.
Pargeter?"

"He's not down yet, sir; he is breakfasting in his dressing-room. All
the arrangements were made last night, but I will let him know you have
arrived, sir." He looked doubtfully at Madame de Lera, too well trained
to ask any question, and yet sufficiently human not to be able to
conceal his astonishment at Mrs. Pargeter's non-appearance. Then,
preceding the two visitors upstairs, he led them through the suite of
large reception-rooms into a small octagon boudoir which was habitually
used by Margaret Pargeter as her sitting-room.

There he left them, and, standing amid surroundings which all spoke to
them, to the woman, of her friend, to the man of his love,--from the
hooded chair where Peggy generally sat to the little writing-table where
she had written so many notes to them both,--Madame de Lera and Laurence
Vanderlyn felt overwhelmed with a common feeling of shame, of guilt. In
silence they waited for Tom Pargeter, avoiding each other's eyes; and
the Frenchwoman's fine austere face grew rigid--this was the first time
in her long life that she had been connected with an intrigue. She felt
humiliated, horrified at the part she now found herself compelled to
play.

In spite of its costly luxury, and its wonderful beauty of
decoration,--an exquisite Nattier was let into a panel above the
fireplace, and a row of eighteenth-century pastels hung on the light
grey walls,--the octagon apartment lacked the restful charm which
belongs to many a shabby little sitting-room. The architect of the villa
had sacrificed everything to the great reception-rooms, and in the
boudoir were far too many doors.

One of these, which Vanderlyn had never noticed before, was now suddenly
flung open, and, outlined against a narrow winding staircase, stood a
figure which appeared at once grotesque and menacing to the man and
woman who stood staring at the unexpected apparition. It was Tom
Pargeter, clad in a bright yellow dressing-gown, and holding a fork in
his left hand.

"I say, Peggy, look