clay to me was given'--do you remember?"

"Yes."

He bade her good-bye. The last thing he looked at in her room was "The
Scarlet Letter," bound in white, lying upon her table. And he glanced
from it to her before he went out and shut the door.

Just outside in the corridor he met a neatly dressed French girl, whose
eyes were very red. She had evidently been crying long and bitterly. She
carried over her arm the skirt of a gown, and she went into the room
which communicated with Mrs. Chepstow's sitting-room.

"Poor girl!" thought Nigel. "I wonder what's the matter with her."

He went on down the corridor to the lift, descended, and made his way to
the Thames Embankment.

When the door shut behind him, Mrs. Chepstow remained standing for a
minute near the piano, waiting, like one expectant of a departing
guest's return. But Nigel did not come back to say any forgotten, final
word. Presently she realized that she was safely alone, and she went to
the piano, sat down, and struck the chords which supported the notes on
which the priest dismissed the soul. But she only played them for a
moment. Then, taking the music off the stand and throwing it on the
floor, she began to play a Spanish dance, lascivious, alluring, as full
of the body as the music of Elgar is full of the soul. And she played it
very well, as well, almost, as a hot-blooded girl of Seville could have
danced it. As she drew near the end, she heard a sound in the adjoining
room, and she stopped abruptly and called out:

"Henriette!"

There was no reply.

"Henriette!" Mrs. Chepstow called again.

The door of the bedroom opened, and the French girl with red eyes
appeared.

"Why don't you answer when I speak to you? How long have you been
there?"

"Two or three minutes, madame," said the girl, in a low voice.

"Did you meet any one in the corridor?"

"Yes, madame, a gentleman."

"Coming from here?"

"Yes, madame."

"Did he see you?"

"Naturally, madame."

"I mean--to notice you?"

"I think he did, madame."

"And did he see you go into my room--with those eyes?"

"Yes, madame."

An angry frown contracted Mrs. Chepstow's forehead, and her face
suddenly became hard and looked almost old.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "If there is a stupid thing to be done, you
are sure to--Go away! go away!"

The maid retreated quickly, and shut the door.

"Idiot!" Mrs. Chepstow muttered.

She knew the value of a last impression.

She went out on