is, and,
for the time, she could do no more. All that she had read of the
hidden and sinister life in the palace at Venice; all that she had
heard of Montbarry's melancholy death and burial in a foreign land; all
that she knew of the mystery of Ferrari's disappearance, rushed into
her mind, when the black-robed figure confronted her, standing just
inside the door. The strange conduct of Lady Montbarry added a new
perplexity to the doubts and misgivings that troubled her. There stood
the adventuress whose character had left its mark on society all over
Europe--the Fury who had terrified Mrs. Ferrari at the
hotel--inconceivably transformed into a timid, shrinking woman! Lady
Montbarry had not once ventured to look at Agnes, since she had made
her way into the room. Advancing to take the chair that had been
pointed out to her, she hesitated, put her hand on the rail to support
herself, and still remained standing. 'Please give me a moment to
compose myself,' she said faintly. Her head sank on her bosom: she
stood before Agnes like a conscious culprit before a merciless judge.

The silence that followed was, literally, the silence of fear on both
sides. In the midst of it, the door was opened once more--and Henry
Westwick appeared.

He looked at Lady Montbarry with a moment's steady attention--bowed to
her with formal politeness--and passed on in silence. At the sight of
her husband's brother, the sinking spirit of the woman sprang to life
again. Her drooping figure became erect. Her eyes met Westwick's
look, brightly defiant. She returned his bow with an icy smile of
contempt.

Henry crossed the room to Agnes.

'Is Lady Montbarry here by your invitation?' he asked quietly.

'No.'

'Do you wish to see her?'

'It is very painful to me to see her.'

He turned and looked at his sister-in-law. 'Do you hear that?' he asked
coldly.

'I hear it,' she answered, more coldly still.

'Your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed.'

'Your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.'

With that retort, Lady Montbarry approached Agnes. The presence of
Henry Westwick seemed at once to relieve and embolden her. 'Permit me
to ask my question, Miss Lockwood,' she said, with graceful courtesy.
'It is nothing to embarrass you. When the courier Ferrari applied to
my late husband for employment, did you--' Her resolution failed her,
before she could say more. She sank trembling into the nearest chair,
and, after a