Last of all, her fingers touched Deerehurst's, and as his
cold hand closed over hers, he bent his head deferentially.

"Good-night, partner! Sleep well! We will be more fortunate in the
future."

But Clodagh gave no sign that she had even heard. Almost ungraciously,
she freed her hand; and, without glancing at any of the occupants of
the room, moved quickly to the door, and passed out into the corridor.

Her brain seemed to burn, as she mounted the long flight of shallow
stairs that led to the bedrooms; her head ached; her senses felt
confused. She had lost money to a far greater extent than she could
possibly afford; she had alienated the friend she had so ardently
desired to make; she had acted wilfully--absurdly--wrongly.

She opened the door of her bedroom with hasty, unsteady fingers. The
lamp on the writing-table was lighted, but the rest of the room was
dim; through the open windows came a slight breeze that stirred the
chintz curtains; in a chair by the dressing-table sat Simonetta in an
attitude of weariness.

The sight of the woman's tired figure jarred on Clodagh's over-strained
nerves.

"You can go, Simonetta!" she said sharply. "I'll put myself to bed."

Simonetta started up remorsefully.

"Pardon, signora----" she exclaimed.

But Clodagh cut her short.

"You can go!" she said. "Good-night!"

The woman looked at her for a moment in doubt and reluctance; then,
instinctively realising that argument was useless, moved softly to the
door.

"Good-night, signora!" she ventured; but as Clodagh made no response,
she departed, silently closing the door.

Left alone, Clodagh moved aimlessly to the centre of the room, and
stood there as if seeking some object which might distract her mind.
Her glance passed vaguely over the dressing-table, laden with familiar
personal objects; then strayed to a couch, on which lay an open book
that she had made a fruitless attempt to read during the hot hours of
the afternoon; at last, attracted by the light of the lamp, it turned
to the writing-table, on which was placed the heavy leather
writing-case that had belonged to her mother, and that had remained
with her through all her wanderings since the time of her marriage. It
lay unlocked, as she had left it the evening before, the contents
protruding untidily from under the thick leather flap. Something
intimate and friendly in the shabby object appealed to and attracted
her. Without considering the action, she went