e heard her open the door of the salon.
She passed the little corridor in silence, and ascended the stair. He
heard the key turn, first in the lock of one door and then in that of
another. He consulted his watch once more by the flickering light of
a lucifer match. He was within a minute of the appointed time, and he
began to ask himself with a fluttering heart what he was to say, and how
he was to bear himself in the coming interview. Upstairs outraged purity
and dignity were waiting for him, and he himself, innocent as he had
meant to be, was yet in a sense the author of the outrage. The minute
crawled. It ticked its final second out at last, and he arose holding
the bracelet in his hand. He mounted the stair, knocked at the door the
maid had indicated to him, and was bidden to enter. The Baroness was
seated in a sea-green dressing-gown ornamented by many pretty devices in
lace of priceless fabric, which had taken a coffee tint by reason of
its age. A book was lying on her knees, and she was toying with an ivory
paper-knife which had its haft in a silver embossed rhinoceros tooth.
She nodded Paul to a chair which had evidently been placed for him.

'I see,' she said, 'that you have found my bracelet'

He handed it to her without a word. She purred a 'Thank you,' and tested
its clasp about her arm.

'Sit down, Mr. Armstrong,' she said.

Paul was still voiceless, but he echoed the coldly courteous Mr.
Armstrong 'in his mind with some dismay.

'I do not see,' said the Baroness de Wyeth, 'how it is possible to
pass over the incident of to-night in silence. Perhaps we may speak one
explanatory word about it and let it go. What have you to tell me, Mr.
Armstrong?'

'Well----'

Paul balanced appealing hands in front of him, waved them, suffered them
to fall at his sides, and said no more.

'You must be conscious,' said the Baroness, tapping the book which
lay before her with her paper-knife, 'that it was by accident that the
incident which is only known to ourselves did not happen in public. In a
measure I have compromised myself, and, if you will permit me to say
so, I am not a woman who is accustomed to be compromised. Your wife
objects--a little unconventionally perhaps--to our association. I am
a woman of the world, and I know very well what construction might be
placed on such an episode. We can both see clearly that such a thing
might happen again at any instant under circumstances less favourable
to my reput