es at--'

Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged the
all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and
entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused still
lay in its little white paper covering on the table. He sealed it up
in an envelope; addressed it to the 'Poor-box' of the nearest
police-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it to
the magistrate the next morning. Faithful to his duties, the servant
waited to ask the customary question, 'Do you dine at home to-day, sir?'

After a moment's hesitation he said, 'No: I shall dine at the club.'

The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the quality
called 'conscience.' In one state of a man's mind, his conscience is
the severest judge that can pass sentence on him. In another state, he
and his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other in
the comfortable capacity of accomplices. When Doctor Wybrow left his
house for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal from
himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what
the world said of the Countess Narona.

CHAPTER III

There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought
the society of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the
smoking-room of his club.

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in
social conclave assembled. The room was well filled; but the flow of
talk was still languid. The Doctor innocently applied the stimulant
that was wanted. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona,
he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment. Never (the
conclave agreed) had such an absurd question been asked before! Every
human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew
the Countess Narona. An adventuress with a European reputation of the
blackest possible colour--such was the general description of the woman
with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes.

Descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed his own
little stock of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess. It was
doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian
lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the Count
whose widow she assumed to be. It was doubtful whether the man who
accompanied her in her travels (under the name of Baron Rivar, and in
the character of