ad against me."

Deerehurst came forward slowly.

"But the turned heads?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Was it my business to put them straight again? I'm not a surgeon."

They all laughed; and at that moment dinner was announced.

Lady Frances Hope touched Clodagh's arm.

"Lord Deerehurst will play host, Clodagh! Val, I consign myself to
you!"

Serracauld moved to her side with his usual indolent ease; and
Deerehurst offered Clodagh his arm.

They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before
the dining-room was reached. And during that passage he found
opportunity for a whispered word or two. As they moved forward he
avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably
pressed hers.

"Am I not forgiving--to be so glad to see you?" he murmured in his
thin, cold voice. "I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that
night in Venice."

Involuntarily her face flushed. His voice was as potent as ever to
express infinitely more than the words it uttered.

"I--I wish to forget Venice," she said.

He stole a swift glance at her.

"Then shall we make a compact? Shall we forget it jointly?"

She said nothing.

Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.

"Why try to ignore me? I am in your life."

The words were few and very simple: so simple and so few that they
conveyed a peculiar impression of power--of weight.

A faint, half-comprehended chill fell upon Clodagh; such a chill as had
fallen upon her once before in the "Abbati" Restaurant, when Deerehurst
had drunk to their next meeting as host and guest.

She laughed suddenly, with a quick, nervous lifting of the head.

"But it is life itself that I wish to ignore."

Again he glanced at her--very swiftly, very searchingly.

"So be it!" he said. "I take that as a challenge--to life and to me."

At the conclusion of dinner that night, the little party of four sat
down to bridge. And an hour after midnight Clodagh rose from the
card-table, a loser to the extent of over forty pounds.

CHAPTER V

On a certain morning in the last week in June, Lady Frances Hope rode
into the courtyard of the Knightsbridge flats. Throwing her bridle to
the man-servant who was attending her, she dismounted from her horse,
gathered up her habit, and entered the doorway of the building.

Seating herself in the lift, she was borne upwards, and a few seconds
later stepped out upon the second floor, and, going briskly forwa