For one fleeting second an impulse--a desire--crossed Clodagh's face;
but as it trembled on the brink of utterance, Gore leant forward in his
seat and gave a quick, imperative order to the gondolier. A moment
later they had glided up a narrow waterway and emerged again upon the
Grand Canal.

From the door and windows of Clodagh's hotel, a stream of light was
still pouring out upon the water. As they drew level with the terrace,
she turned her face away from this searching radiance, and rose quickly
to her feet.

"Good-night," she said in an almost inarticulate voice--"good-night!
Don't stir! Don't help me!"

But Gore had risen also. And in a sudden return of his earlier, more
impulsive manner, he forgot the self-consciousness that had chilled
him.

"Mrs. Milbanke----" he said quickly.

But Clodagh evaded his eyes; and with a sharp nervous movement, shook
her head.

"No!" she said--"no! Don't help me! I don't want help!"

Stepping past him with an agile movement, she ran up the steps, and
across the terrace to the door of the hotel.

Obeying a dominant impulse, Gore turned to follow her. But as his foot
touched the side of the boat, he paused, drew slowly back, and dropped
into his former seat.

With almost breathless haste, Clodagh ran up the silent staircase of
the hotel, and entering her own room, turned on the light; then,
walking straight to the dressing-table, she paused and stared into the
mirror at her own reflection.

The sight of that reflection was not reassuring. Her face looked
colourless, as only olive-tinted skin can look; her wide eyes with
their narrowed pupils seemed almost yellow in their intense clearness;
while her whole air, her whole appearance, was frightened, tired,
pained. As she looked, a nervous panic seized her, and she turned her
gaze away.

With freedom to look elsewhere, her eyes roved over the dressing-table,
and suddenly fixed themselves upon a large, square envelope bearing her
name, which stood propped against a scent bottle.

In nervous haste she picked it up, and looked at it uncomprehendingly.
It was unusually large and thick and addressed in an unfamiliar hand.
With the same unstrung haste she turned it about between her fingers,
halting with new apprehension, as she saw that its flap bore an
elaborate black coronet and monogram.

At last, with a strange sense of apprehension, she tore the envelope
open.

"CIRCE," the letter began.

"I will not r