sir, but I wouldn't let 'im talk to 'im. 'E's
not very grand--this little dog ain't. I think it's only a chill, but
we've hisolated 'im, in case..."

Patch was summoned peremptorily, to come running wide-eyed. Happily in
his sight his master could do no wrong; otherwise it is possible that
he might have thought himself hardly used and love's labour lost indeed.

Anthony passed into the hall, thinking furiously. With Patch under his
arm, he spoke to the fair-haired girl in charge of the office.

"I've seen a dog out there that I recognize--an Irish terrier. He's
not very well, your man said. May I know whose he is?"

"Oh, yes. He belongs to Miss French--Miss Valerie French. He's a nice
little dog, isn't he?"

If Anthony Lyveden had reflected, it would have occurred to him that
his informant had been, as they say, "very quick in the uptake." The
truth was that less than a week ago Miss Valerie French had recognized
Patch and had asked the same girl for the name of his owner.

"He's a beauty," said Anthony. "Does she keep him here all the time?"

"When she's in London," said the girl. "I expect you've seen her.
She's very often down."

Anthony nodded.

"I think I must have," he said.

Then he made much of Patch and handed him over.

"See you next week, little Patch. Next Saturday. Only a week from
to-day. Good-bye, little fellow."

He ruffled the tousled head with a last caress, smiled at the puzzled
brown eyes, and turned away....

There was no sweet sorrow about these partings. They were purely
abominable.

At the very hour that Lyveden walked heavily down the wet lanes on his
way to the station, Valerie French, who was to dine early and go to the
play, was sitting before her dressing-table in an apricot kimono.

The evening sun stared into her bedroom mercilessly and found no fault
in it. It was a broad low room, full of soft colours and the warm glow
of highly polished wood. Walls, curtains, and carpet were all of
powder-blue; an old rose fabric covered what seats there were; an
apple-green coverlet filled up the symphony. That taper elegance which
modern craftsmanship can give mahogany was most apparent, lending the
usual suite unusual comeliness. A great pier-glass flashed in a
corner, upon a little table beside a deep chair a bowl of roses
sweetened the London air, above the well-found bed dangled an ivory
switch.

If the chamber was fair, so was my lady.

Looking upon her b