the likelihood of Dorset's marrying
Miss Bart if "anything happened"; and though Mrs. Fisher's conclusions
were notoriously rash, she was shrewd enough in reading the signs from
which they were drawn. Dorset had apparently shown marked interest in the
girl, and this interest might be used to cruel advantage in his wife's
struggle for rehabilitation. Selden knew that Bertha would fight to the
last round of powder: the rashness of her conduct was illogically
combined with a cold determination to escape its consequences. She could
be as unscrupulous in fighting for herself as she was reckless in
courting danger, and whatever came to her hand at such moments was likely
to be used as a defensive missile. He did not, as yet, see clearly just
what course she was likely to take, but his perplexity increased his
apprehension, and with it the sense that, before leaving, he must speak
again with Miss Bart. Whatever her share in the situation--and he had
always honestly tried to resist judging her by her surroundings--however
free she might be from any personal connection with it, she would be
better out of the way of a possible crash; and since she had appealed to
him for help, it was clearly his business to tell her so.

This decision at last brought him to his feet, and carried him back to
the gambling rooms, within whose doors he had seen her disappearing; but
a prolonged exploration of the crowd failed to put him on her traces. He
saw instead, to his surprise, Ned Silverton loitering somewhat
ostentatiously about the tables; and the discovery that this actor in the
drama was not only hovering in the wings, but actually inviting the
exposure of the footlights, though it might have seemed to imply that all
peril was over, served rather to deepen Selden's sense of foreboding.
Charged with this impression he returned to the square, hoping to see
Miss Bart move across it, as every one in Monte Carlo seemed inevitably
to do at least a dozen times a day; but here again he waited vainly for a
glimpse of her, and the conclusion was slowly forced on him that she had
gone back to the Sabrina. It would be difficult to follow her there, and
still more difficult, should he do so, to contrive the opportunity for a
private word; and he had almost decided on the unsatisfactory alternative
of writing, when the ceaseless diorama of the square suddenly unrolled
before him the figures of Lord Hubert and Mrs. Bry.

Hailing them at once with his qu