e after this
illness or whatever it was, then she should be more than grateful, but
as for paying salaries to _employes_ who did not work, why, did people
consider him an imbecile?

Emile shrugged and sneered at intervals throughout this tirade. He had
wisely begun by asking more than he knew he was at all likely to get,
and was now obliged to be satisfied with the compromise.

Disappointment followed his search for the whereabouts of Count
Vladimir. The owner of "_The Witch_" was expected back in Barcelona in
a month or so, no one knew exactly when. Letters might be addressed
Poste Restante, Corfu, for he was cruising in his phantom craft through
those sapphire seas that lie round about the Ionian Islands.

There was nothing to do but to write and wait. One piece of ill-luck
was following close upon another, and Emile felt that he needed all the
consolations that his cynical philosophy could afford.

His anxiety on Arithelli's behalf was fast becoming an obsession. When
she had first come into his life he had wondered sometimes how she
would stand the late hours and all the hardships of a circus training,
but after her one outburst she had never complained again.

He thought the sea-trip had done her good. Of course she always looked
pale, but then that was her type.

He had also been impressed with the unwonted seriousness of Michael,
knowing that in spite of his erratic ways the doctor understood his
craft.

Emile's instinct prompted him vigorously to go back now and see how she
was getting on, but he dared not neglect the work of his Society.
There were letters to be written, arrangements to be made, all the
usual paraphernalia of intrigue to be kept going.

He returned to his own rooms and began to write savagely, using all his
will to expel from his brain the vision of the girl as he had seen her
last, semi-conscious, and yet with his name on her lips.

Michael had promised to see her again at six o'clock. It would be time
enough if he also went then. Besides, the Cause came first always, and
there were many women in the world. His pen tore fiercely over the
paper as something whispered: "Women? Yes. But another Arithelli--?"

CHAPTER XII

"I have something more to think of than Love. All the women in the
world would not make me waste an hour."
SAYING OF NAPOLEON.

The stolid niece blundered heavily about the room, doing things that
were entirely unnecessary, and rais