, and next day, having
wired to Mimo to meet her at the station, she returned to London.

They talked in the Waterloo waiting-room; poor Mimo seemed so glad and
happy. He saw her and her small bag into a taxi. She was going back to
her uncle's, and was to take Mirko down next day, and, on the following
one, start for Paris.

"But I can't go back to Park Lane without seeing Mirko, now," she said.
"I did not tell my uncle what train I was returning by. There is plenty
of time so I will go and have tea with you at Neville Street. It will be
like old times, we will get some cakes and other things on the way, and
boil the kettle on the fire."

So Mimo gladly got in with her and they started. He had a new suit of
clothes and a new felt hat, and looked a wonderfully handsome foreign
gentleman; his manner to women was always courteous and gallant. Zara
smiled and looked almost happy, as they arranged the details of their
surprise tea party for Mirko.

At that moment there passed them in Whitehall a motorcar going very
fast, the occupant of which, a handsome young man, caught the most
fleeting glimpse of them--hardly enough to be certain he recognized
Zara. But it gave him a great start and a thrill.

"It cannot be she," he said to himself, "she went to Paris yesterday;
but if it is--who is the man?"

He altered his plans, went back to his rooms, and sat moodily down in
his favorite chair--an unpleasant, gnawing uncertainty in his heart.

CHAPTER X

Mirko, crouched up by the smoldering fire, was playing the _Chanson
Triste_ on his violin when the two reached the studio. He had a
wonderful talent--of that there was no doubt--but his health had always
been too delicate to stand any continuous study. Nor had the means of
the family ever been in a sufficiently prosperous condition, in later
years, to procure a really good master. But the touch and soul of the
strange little fellow sounded in every wailing note. He always played
the _Chanson Triste_ when he was sad and lonely. He had been nearly
seven when his mother died, and he remembered her vividly. She had so
loved Tschaikovsky's music, and this piece especially. He had played it
to her--from ear then--the afternoon she lay dying, and for him, as for
them all, it was indissolubly connected with her memory. The tears were
slowly trickling down Mirko's cheeks. He was going to be taken away from
his father, his much loved Cherisette would not be near him, and he
fea