in attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than once
tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather nervous
conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and refused to
listen. As Sir John helped himself to the next dish, Venaison sauce
Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had seized him when he
first tasted the fish deepened into something like Consternation. Had
his palate indeed deceived him, or had the Marchesa, by some subtle
effort of experimental genius, divined the secret of Narcisse--the
secret of that incomparable sauce, the recipe of which was safely
bestowed in his pocket-book? Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under
the verandah after lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might
have murmured, in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery,
and the description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams?
One thing was certain, that the savour which rose from the venison
before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting effort
of the ill-starred Narcisse.

Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was face
to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the credulous
accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and sceptics as
coincidences and nothing more. All the afternoon he had been thinking
of Narcisse, and yearning beyond measure for something suggestive of his
art; and here, on his plate before him, was food which might have been
touched by the vanished hand. The same subtle influence pervaded the
Chartreuse a la cardinal, the roast capon and salad, and the sweet.
At last, when the dinner was nearly over, and when the Marchesa had
apparently said all she had to say to Van der Roet, he lifted up his
voice and said, "Marchesa, who gave you the recipe for the sauce with
which the venison was served this evening?"

The Marchesa glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, and then struck a hand-bell on
the table. The door opened, and a little man, habited in a cook's dress
of spotless white, entered and came forward. "M. Narcisse," said the
Marchesa, "Sir John wants to know what sauce was used in dressing the
venison; perhaps you can tell him."

Here the Marchesa rose and left the room, and all the rest followed her,
feeling it was unmeet that such a reunion should be witnessed by other
eyes, however friendly they might be.

* * * * *

"Now, you must tell us all about it," said Lady Considine, as soon a