figure. She smiled with entrancing sweetness, and held out her hands.

But as her gaze swept over the occupants of the room, the smile
vanished. Her eyes became fixed and staring; her face set. She uttered a
sharp cry--and fell forward in a dead faint.

CHAPTER III

THE ENDLESS GARDEN

Confusion followed. Copplestone knelt beside her, calling her by name in
a strange excess of fear. The theatrical manager tore a flask from his
pocket, and administered its contents freely. The spirit revived her.
She opened her eyes. They lifted her gently, and laid her on a couch.

"It was that madman rushing in unnerved her," Copplestone cried
fiercely. "Wish I'd called in the police. Curse him!"

Her hand closed on his. "No, no," she whispered. "He must not be
touched. He didn't mean it."

"Mean it be damned!" said Copplestone savagely. "If I see any more of
him, he'll find himself in jail in less time than it takes to say it."

The manager proffered further stimulant. The color began to return to
her face, but her eyes were wide and strained. Copplestone watched her
closely.

"Look here," said the manager, re-corking his empty flask, "she'd better
rest. Let's all clear off, and go on with this another night."

"Thertainly," agreed the financier.

But Christine Manderson rose, and leant on Copplestone's arm. Her
self-control was exerted to the utmost, but she trembled.

"Forgive me," she said softly. "I am all right now. Please don't go."

"Good!" Copplestone exclaimed, recovering his equanimity. "It would be a
pity to break up. We'll have a jolly night." He laughed loudly.
"Tranter, of all people!" he cried boisterously. "And----" he looked
towards Monsieur Dupont.

"I was sure you wouldn't mind my bringing a friend with me," Tranter
said. "Monsieur Dupont has just arrived from Paris."

"Delighted," said Copplestone, shaking hands with great heartiness.
"Forgive this unhappy beginning. We'll make up for it now. Come along to
dinner. It's all ready."

In the dining-room they sat down to a table that glittered and gleamed
with a hundred lights, concealed under strands of white crystallized
leaves, springing from a frosted tree. Such a table might have been set
in Fairyland, for the betrothal feast of Oberon.

"Glad we didn't miss this," said the theatrical manager.

He regaled the company with a selection of his less offensive stories,
and found ready applause. The gayety was loud and forced. Every one
a