 CHAPTER XIII. THE SERIES GOES ON. After all, Ennisley had not written to her friends, Archdeacon Smith and his wife, on leaving Mrs. Ellsworth, to tell the surprising news of her engagement. She had asked Mr. Ruth Van Smith not to speak of it to his cousins, because she would prefer to write, but then, the pudding of the news on paper in a way not to offend them, after their kindness in the past had been difficult. Besides, there had been little time to think out the difficulties and find a way of surmounting them. There had been only one whole day before the wedding, and that day she had spent with Knight, buying her true so. It had been a wonderful day, never to be forgotten, but its end had found her tired, and when Knight had said good-bye and left her, she had not been equal to composing a letter. Nevertheless she had tried it, for it had seemed dreadful to marry and go away from London, without letting her only friends know what had happened, what she was doing, and why she had not invited them to her wedding. And why? In explaining that, she confronted the great obstacle. She had not known how to exonerate herself without hurting their feelings, or telling a lie. The girl hated lying. She could not remember that in her life she had ever spoken or written a lie in so many words, though like most people who are not saints, she had pervericated a little occasionally to save herself or others from some unpleasantness. In this case no innocent perverication would serve. Even if she had been willing to lie, she could think of no excuse which would seem plausible. Tired as she had been that last night, as Anisey grail, and throbbing as she was with excitement at the thought of the new life before her, she did begin a letter. It was a feeble effort, she tore it up and essayed another. The second was worse than the first, and the third was scarcely in improvement. Discouraged and so nerve-wracked that she was on the point of tears, the girl put off the attempt. But days passed, and when no inspiration came, and she was still haunted by the thought of a duty undone, she compromised by telegraphing from Devonshire. Her message ran. Dear friends, I beg you to forgive me for seeming neglect. But it was not really that. I am married to a man I love. It had to be sudden. I could not let you know in time, though I wanted to. I shall not be quite happy till I've seen you and introduced my husband. Say to your cousin, he may explain as far as he can. When we meet we'll tell you more. Coming back to London in a fortnight, to take house in Portman Square and settle down. Love and gratitude always. My new name is same as yours. Anisley Smith. To this she added her address in Devonshire, feeling sure that unless Archdeacon and his wife were hopelessly offended by her neglect and horrified at Ruth and Smith's story, they would write. She cared for them very much, and it would always be a grief, she thought, that she and Knight had not been married by her old friend. Every night she prayed for a letter, waking in the hope that the postman might bring one, and five days after the sending of her telegram her heart leaped at sight of a fat envelope addressed in Mrs. Smith's familiar handwriting. They forgave her. That was the principal thing, and they rejoiced in her happiness, all explanations, if, dear Anisley wished to make any, could wait until they met. The kind woman wrote, Cousin James Ruth and Smith was loyal to his promise, and gave us no hint of your news. We did not, of course, know of the promise till after your telegram came, and we showed it to him. Then he confessed that he was in your secret, that he had been witness of a scene in which poor Mrs. Elthworth had made herself more than usually unpleasant, and that you had asked him to let you tell us the glad tidings of your engagement and hasty wedding. I say, poor Mrs. Elthworths, because it seems she has been ill since you left, and has had other misfortunes. The illness is not serious, and I imagine, now I have heard fuller details of her treatment of you, that it is merely a liver and nerve attack, the result of temper. If she had not been confined to bed, and very sorry for herself, I am sure nothing could have prevented her from writing to us a garbled account of the quarrel and your departure. As it turned out, I hear she rang up the household after you went that night, had hysterics, and sent a servant flying for the doctor. He, a most inferior person, according to Cousin James, having a sister who is a trained nurse, put her in charge of the patient at once, where she has remained since. In consequence of the nurse's tyrannical ways the servants gave a day's notice and left in a body. Three temporary ones were got in as soon as possible from some agency, and last night, four days, I believe, after they were installed, a burglary was committed in the house. Only fancy, poor Rutherford, he was afraid to stay, even with us, in our quiet house when he came to London, because once, years ago, we were robbed. You know how reticent he is about his affairs, and how he never says anything concerning business. One might think that to us he would show some of the beautiful jewels he is supposed to buy for the Van Vrecks. But no, he never mentions them. We should not have known why he came to England this time, after a shorter interval than usual, or that he had valuables in his possession, if it had not been for this burglary. As he was obliged to talk to the police and describe to them what had been stolen from him, I forgot to mention that he, as well as Mrs. Ellsworth, was robbed. But you would have guessed that, from my beginning, even if you hadn't read the morning papers before taking up my letter. There was no reason why, for once, he should not speak freely to us. He has been lunching here, and has just gone, as I write, but I will transfer him later to our house, as it has now become unbearable for him at Mrs. Ellsworth's. I fancy that arrangement has been brought to an end. Your presence in that menagerie was the sole alleviation. James, it appears, came to London on an unexpected mission, differing from his ordinary You may remember seeing in the papers some weeks ago that an ancient of the Van Vrecht firm was robbed on ship-board of a lot of pearls, and things he was bringing to show an important client in England, some Indian potentate. James tells us that he procured the finest of the collection for the Van Vrecht's, and as he is a great expert, and can recognize jewels he has once seen, even when disguised or cut up, or in different settings, he was able to go to London to help the police find and identify some of the lost valuables. Also, he was instructed to buy more pearls, to be sold to the Indian customer instead of those stolen from the agent on ship-board. James had not found any of the lost things, but he had bought some pearls the day before the burglary at Mrs. Ellsworth's. Wasn't it too unlucky? I have tried to give the poor fellow a little consolation, by reminding him how fortunate it is he hadn't bought more, and that the lost will be the Van Vrecht's, or that of some insurance company, not his personally. But he cannot be comforted, he says, that his not having ten thousand pounds worth of pearls doesn't console him for being robbed of eight thousand pounds worth. James has little hope that the thieves will be found, for he feels that the Van Vrecht's are in for a run of bad luck, after the good fortune of many years. They have lost the head of the firm, the great Paul, as James calls him, who has definitely retired, and occupies himself so exclusively with his collection that he takes no interest in the business. Then there was the robbery on the ship, which, in James's opinion, must have been the work of a masterly combination, and now another theft, the poor man has quite lost his nerve, which, as you know, has for years not been that of a young man. His deafness, no doubt, partly accounts for the timidity with which he has been afflicted since the first, and only other time he was robbed. And now he blames it for what happened last night. He has trained himself to be a light sleeper, and if he could hear as well as other people, he thinks the thief would have waked him, coming into his room. Once in the wretch must have drugged him, because the pearls were in a parcel under his pillow. But how the man, or man, got into the house is a mystery, unless one of the new servants was an accomplice! Nothing was broken open, in the morning every door and window was as usual. Of course the servants are under suspicion, but they seem stupid ordinary people, according to James. As for Mrs. Althworth, he says she is making a fuss over the wretched bits of jewellery she lost, things of no importance. She too slept through the affair, and knew what had happened only when she waked to see a safe she has in the wall of her bedroom, wide open. It seems that in place of her jewel-box and some money she kept there was an insulting note, announcing that for the first time something belonging to her would be used for a good purpose. To James this is one of the bright spots in the darkness. When Annasly had read this long letter, with its many italics, she passed it to Knight, who in exchange, handed her a London newspaper with a page folded, so as to give prominence to a surgeon column. It was an account of the burglary at Mrs. Althworth's house, which he had been reading. Generous with money, as Nelson Smith was, he was not a man who would allow himself to be done, and in some ways the Annasly Seetons were disappointed in the bargain they arrived at with him. He appeared delighted with the chance of getting their London house, and of having them come to stay, in order to introduce his wife and himself to the brightest most particular stars in the galaxy of their friends. Yet when it came to making definite terms, he seemed to take it for granted that, as the Annasly Seetons would be living in the house as guests, they would not only be willing, but anxious, to accept a low price. This had not been their intention, on the contrary, they had meant their visit in social offices to be a great extra favour, which ought to raise rather than lower the rent. In some mysterious way, however, without appearing to bargain or haggle Nelson Smith, the young millionaire from America, made his bride's relatives understand that he was prepared to pay so much and no more, that they could take him on his own terms or let him go. Terrified therefore, lest he and his money should slip out of their hands, they snapped at his carelessly made offer without venturing an objection, and they realized at the same time, in a way equally mysterious and to their own surprise, that not they but Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith would be master and mistress of the house in Portman Square. If there were ever a clash between wills, Nelson Smith would prevail over theirs. How this impression was conveyed to their intelligence they could hardly have explained even to each other. The man was so pleasant, so careless of finances or conventionalities, that not one word or look could be treasured up against him. The fellow's a genius, Anisley Seton said to Constance, when they were talking over the latest phase of the game, and they respected him. Lady Anisley Seton wished to bring to town the servants, including a wonderful butler who had been transferred for economy's sake to Valley House. This proposal, however, Nelson Smith dismissed with few good-natured words. He had his eye upon a butler whose brother was a chauffeur. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Anita, he explained. Your servants would scorn to take orders from her, and I want her to learn the dignity of a married woman with responsibilities of her own. That's the first step towards being the perfect hostess. She's the sweetest girl in the world, but she's timid and distrustful of herself. I want her to know her own worth, and then it won't be long before everyone around her knows it. There was no answer to this, except acquiescence, which Dick and Constance were obliged to give. They did give it, the more readily because they were inclined to suspect a hidden hint, a pill between layers of jam. If the girl had been transferred from the earth to Mars, the new conditions of life could scarcely have been more different from the old than was life in Portman Square married to Nelson Smith from the treadmill as Mrs. Ellsworth's slave-companion. What the Portman Square experiences of the bride would have been if night had allowed the anisey-seatons to begin by ruling it would be dangerous to say. But he had taken his stand, and without guessing that she owed her freedom of action to her husband's strength of will. She reveled in it with a joy so intense that it came close to pain. Sometimes if he were within reach she ran to find night, and hugged him almost fiercely with a passion that surprised herself. I am so happy, that's all, she would explain, if he asked, what has happened? My soul was buried, you've brought it back to life. When she said such things, night smiled and seemed glad, he would hold her to him for a minute or kiss her hand, like a humble squire with a princess. But now and then he looked at her with a wistfulness that was like a question she could not hear because she was deaf. She never got any satisfaction though if she asked what the look meant. Oh, I don't know, I was only thinking of you, he would answer, or some other words of lover-language. The anisey-seatons' first move on the social chess-board was to make use of a pawn or two in the shape of society reporters. They knew a few men and women of good birth and no money, who lived by writing anonymously for the papers. These people were delighted to get material for a paragraph or photographs for their editors. Connie took her new cousin to the woman photographer, who was the success of the moment, and as she said to-night, the rest managed itself. Meanwhile, an application was made to the Lord Chamberlain for Mrs. Nelson Smith's presentation by her cousin, Lady Anisey Seaton, at the first court of the season. It was granted, and the bride in white and silver made her bow to their majesties. As for night he laughingly refused, Dick's good offices. No levies for me, he said, I've lived too long in America and roughed it in too many queer places to take myself seriously in knee- britches. Besides, they have to know about your ancestors back to the Dark Ages, don't they, or else they cancel you. My father was a good man and a gentleman, but who his father was I couldn't tell to save my head. My mother was by way of being a swell, but she was a foreigner, so I can't make use of her quarterings even if I could count them. Anisey was presented in February, and had by that time been settled in Portman Square long enough to have met many of her cousin's friends. After the court which launched her in society, she and Knight, with a list supplied by Connie, gave a dinner dance. The Countess de Santiago was not asked. But soon afterwards there was a luncheon entirely for women, in American fashion, at which the Countess was present. When luncheon was over she gave a short lecture on the science of palmistry, and the cultivation of clairvoyant powers. Then there was tea, and the Countess allowed herself to be consulted by the guests, the dozen most important women of Connie's acquaintance. Anisey, though she was not able to like the Countess, was pleased with the praise lavished upon her, both for her looks and her accomplishments that afternoon. She had guessed, from the beautiful woman's constrained manner, when they met at a shop, the day after the dinner dance, that she was hurt because she had not been invited, though why she should expect to be asked to every entertainment which the Nelson Smiths gave Anisey could not see. Anisey distressed, however, by the flash in the handsome eyes, and the curt, how do you do, the girl appealed to-night. "'Ought we to have had the Countess de Santiago last evening?' she asked, perching on his knee in the room at the back of the house, which he had annexed as a den. Certainly not, he reassured her promptly. All the people were howling swells. The Anisey sitans had skimmed the topmost layer of the cream for our benefit, and the Countess would have been out of it in such a set, unless she'd been telling fortunes. You can ask her when you've a crowd of women. She'll amuse them and gather glory for herself. But I'm not going to have her. Encouraged to think we belong to her. We've set the woman on her feet by what we've done. Now let her learn to stand alone.' The lady's luncheon was a direct consequence of this speech, but complete as was the Countess's success, Anisey felt that she was not satisfied, that it would take more than a luncheon party of which she was the heroine to content the Countess, now that Nelson Smith and his bride had a house and a circle in London. Occasionally when she was giving an at-home, or a dinner, Anisey consulted Knight. Shall we ask the Countess, was her query, and the first time she did this he answered with another question. Do you want her for your own pleasure? Do you like her better than you did? Anisey had to say no to this catacysing, whereupon a night, briefly disposed of the subject. That settles it, we won't have her. And so, during the next few weeks, the Countess de Santiago, who moved from the Savoy Hotel into a charming, furnished flat in Cadogan Gardens, came to Portman Square only for one luncheon and two or three receptions. By this time, however, she had made friends of her own, and if she had cared to accept a professional status, she might have raked in a small fortune from her seances. She would not take money, however, preferring social recognition, but gifts were pressed upon her by those who, though grateful and admiring, did not care for the obligation to admit the Countess into their intimacy. She took the rings and bracelets and pendants and flowers and fruit and bonbons and books, because they were given in such a way that it would have been ungracious to refuse. But the givers were the very women whose booze and friends she would have liked to see in the sight of the world, a Duchess, a Countess, or a woman distinguished above her sisters for some reason. She worked to gain favour, and when she had any personal triumph, without direct aid from Portman Square, she put on an air of superiority over Anisley when they met. If she suffered a gentle snub, she hid the smart, but secretly brooded, blaming Mrs. Nelson Smith, because she was asked to their house only for big parties, or when she was wanted to amuse their friends. She blamed Nelson too, but womanlike blamed Anisley more. Sometimes she determined to put out a claw and draw blood from both, but changed her mind, remembering that to do them harm she must harm herself. Once it occurred to her to form a separate, secret alliance with Constance Anisley Seton, there were reasons why that might have suited her, and she began one day to feel her ground when Connie had telephoned and had come to her flat for advice from the crystal. She had seen things which she thought Lady Anisley Seton would like to see, and when the séance was ended in a friendly talk the Countess de Santiago begged Constance to call her Madalina. You are my first real friend in England, she said. Except my cousin Anne, Connie amended, with a sharp glance from the green-gray eyes, to see whether Madalina were working up to anything. Oh, I can't count on her, said the Countess. She doesn't like me. She wouldn't have me come near her if it weren't for her husband. I am quick to feel things. You, I believe, really do like me, so I can speak freely to you, and you know you can to me. But Constance, in the slang of her girlhood days, wasn't taking any. She was afraid that Madalina was trying to draw her into finding fault with her host and hostess in order to repeat what she said with embroideries to Nelson Smith or Anisley. She was not a woman to be caught by the subtleties of another, and in dread of compromising herself did the Countess de Santiago an injustice. If she had ventured any disparaging remarks of cousin Anne they would not have been repeated. This season began early and brilliantly that year, for the weather was spring-like, even in February, and people were ready to enjoy everything. The one blot on the general brightness was a series of robberies. Something happened on an average of ten or twelve days, and always in an unexpected quarter, where the police were not looking. Among the first to suffer were Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith. The Portman Square house was broken into, the thief entering a window of the den on the ground floor, and making a clean sweep of all the jewelry, night and Anisley owned, except her engagement ring, the string of pearls which had been her lover's wedding gift, and the wonderful blue diamond on its thin gold chain. These things she wore by night as well as day. But a gold-chain bag, a magnificent double-rope of pearls, a diamond dog-collar, several rings, broaches and bangles, which night had given her since their marriage, all went. Miss Pearl studs his watch, a present of Anisley's allowance, hoarded for the purpose, and a collection of jeweled scarf-pins, shared the fate of his wife's treasures. Unfortunately a great deal of the Anisley-Seaton family silver went at the same time, regretted by night far beyond his own losses. Dick was inclined to be solemn over such a haul, but Constance laughed. "'Who cares?' she said. We have no children, and for my part I'm pleased as punch that your horrid old third-cousins will come into less when we're swept off the board. Meanwhile we get the insurance money for loss of use again. It's simply splendid, and that dear Nelson Smith insists on buying the best Sheffield plate to replace what's gone. It's handsomer than the real.' Neither she nor Dick lost any jewelry, though they possessed a little with which they had not the courage to part. And this seemed mysterious to Constance. She wondered over it, and remembering how the Countess de Santiago had prophesied another robbery for them, telephoned to ask if she'd be a darling in look again in her crystal. Madeline had telephoned back. I'll expect you this afternoon at four o'clock. Williamson. CHAPTER XIV. THE TEST. Madelaine had meant to go out that afternoon, but she changed her mind and stopped at home. I know what you've come for, she said, as she kept Connie's hand in hers. It was an effective way she had, as if contact with a person helped her to read the condition of that person's mind. Do you really, exclaimed Constance, why I— But you mean you've guessed what has ha— It's not guessing, it's seeing, answered the Countess. I'm in one of my psychic moods today. A prophecy of mine has come true? No. Yes. Well, in a way you're right, in a way you're wrong. What is it you see? I see that you've lost something, probably last night. This morning I waked with the impression. I wasn't surprised when you telephoned. Now, let me go on holding your hand and think. I'll shut my eyes. I don't need my room in the crystal. Yes, the impression grows clearer. You have lost something, but it is not a thing to care about. You're glad it's gone. You are extraordinary, Constance wondered aloud. Can you see what I lost, and whether it was Dix or mine, or both? His, said Madelaine, after shutting her eyes again. His, and he does not care much either. That seems strange, but I tell you what I feel. You are telling me the truth, Constance admitted. Now, go on. Tell what was the thing itself, and the way we lost it. I haven't seen that yet. I haven't tried. Perhaps I shall be able to, in the crystal. Perhaps not. I don't always succeed. But it comes to me suddenly that this thing isn't directly or entirely what brought you here. Right again, a witch laughed Connie. I came to ask you to find out. You're so marvelous, why I didn't lose other things, which I really do value. The two women had been standing in the drawing room, Lady Anselie Seton's hands still in the countesses. But now, without speaking again, Madelaine led her visitor into the room adjoining, which was fitted up much as the room at the Devonshire Hotel had been, for her first séance. The cirrus gave herself, here at home, the same background of purple velvet. The floor was carpeted with black and spread with black fur rugs. She was never without fragrant white lilies ranged in curious pots along the purple walls. But in her own house the appointments were more elaborate and impressive than the temporary fittings she carried about for use when visiting. On her table was a cushion of cloth of gold embroidered with amethysts and emeralds, the lucky jewels of her horoscope, and her gleaming ball of crystal lay like a bright bubble in a shallow cup of solid jet, which, she told everyone, had been given her in India by the greatest astrologer in the world. What was the name of this man and when had she visited him in India she did not reveal? They sat down at the table, she and Constance, Ansley Seton, opposite each other. Madelaine unveiled the crystal, which was hidden under a covering of black velvet when not in use. At first she gazed into the glittering ball in vain, and her companion watched her face anxiously. It looked marble white and expressionless as that of a statue, in the light of seven wax candles grouped together in a silver candelabrum. Suddenly, as it seemed to Constance's hypnotized stare, the statue face came alive. It was not the first time that Constance had seen this thrilling change. It invariably happened when the crystal began to show a picture, and so powerful was its effect on the nerves of the watcher in this silent perfumed room as to give an illusion that she, too, could see dimly what the serus saw forming in those transparent depths. A man is there, Madelaine has said, in a low measured voice, as if she were talking in her sleep. He is shutting a door. It is the front door of a house like yours. Yes, it is yours. There is the number over the door, and I recognize the street. It is Portman Square. He puts a latchkey in his pocket. How could he have got the key? I do not know. Perhaps I could find out, but there is no time. I must follow him. He is hurrying away. He carries a heavy traveling bag. A closed carriage is coming along. Not a public one. It has been waiting for him, I think. He gets in, and the coachman, who is in black, drives off very fast. They go through street after street. I can't be sure where. It seems to be north there going. There's a park, Regent's Park, maybe. I don't know London well. The carriage is stopping, before a closed house in a quiet street. There is a little garden in front, and a high wall. The man opens the gate and walks in. The carriage drives off. The coachman must know where to go, for no word is said. Someone inside the house is waiting. He lets the man with the bag into a dark hallway. Now he shuts the door and goes into a room. There is a light. The first man puts the bag on a table. It is a dining table. The other man, much older, watches. The first one takes things out of the bag. Oh, a great deal of beautiful silver. I have seen it at your house, and there are other things. A string of pearls and a lot of jewelry. He pours it out of a brown handkerchief onto the table. But still the second man is not pleased. I think he is asking why there isn't more. The first man explains. He makes gestures. So does the other. They are quarreling. The man who brought the bag is afraid of the older one. He apologizes. He seems to be talking about something that he will do. He goes to a mantelpiece in the room and points to a calendar. He touches a date with his forefinger. What date? Lady Ansley Seton cried out. It was forbidden to speak to the Cirrus in the midst of a vision, but Constance forgot in the strain of her excitement. The Countess gave a gasp, fell back in her chair, and put her hands over her eyes. Oh, she stammered, as though she awoke from sleep. How my headaches! It is all gone. I'm so sorry, Constance apologized. It began to seem so real. I thought I was in that room with you. You are unaccountable. You couldn't know what happened. Yet you have been seeing the thief who stole our silver last night, and the Nelson Smith's jewelry, but no jewelry of ours. That is the strange part of the affair, for I have a few things I adore, and they would have been easy to find. You didn't even know we had been robbed, did you? No, of course not, said the Countess. I am sorry. Was it in the papers? It will be this evening and tomorrow morning, but the police must hear about this vision of yours, the vision of the man with the latchkey. It may help them. You must not tell the police, Maddalena said. I have warned you all, that if you talk too much about me and my crystal, the police might hear and take notice. There are such stupid laws in England. I may be doing something against them. If you or Lord Ansley Seaton speak of me to the police, I will go away, and you will never hear more of my visions, as you call them, in future, unless you promise that you will let the police find the thieves in their own way, without dragging me in. I shall be so unnerved that my eyes will be darkened. Oh, I promise, if you feel so strongly about it, said Constance, I didn't realize that it might do you harm to be mentioned to the police. She wished very much to have Maddalena go on looking in the crystal. She had been excited, carried out of herself for a few minutes, but she had not heard what she had come to hear, why she had been spared the loss of her personal treasures. The desired promise, hurriedly made, the Countess gave her attention, once more to the crystal. For a time she could see nothing, the mysterious current had been severed by the diversion, and had slowly to be rewoven by the Cirrus's will. I can see only dimly, Maddalena said. It was clear before, I cannot tell you why the things you care for were left. Something new is coming. It seems that this time I am looking ahead into the future. The picture is blurred, like a badly developed photograph. The thing I see has still to materialize. Where, whispered Constance, thrilled by the thought that some event on its way to her, down the unmoaned path of futurity, was casting a shadow into the crystal. Where? I see a beautiful room. There are a number of people there, men and women. You are with them. And Lord Ansley Seaton, and Nelson Smith, and your cousin Anne. I know most of the faces, not all. Everyone is excited. Something has happened. They are talking it over. Now I see the room more clearly. It is as if a light were turned on in the crystal. Oh, it is what you call the Chinese drawing room at Valley House. I know why the room lights up, and why I see everything so much more clearly. It is because I myself am coming into the picture. The people want me to tell them the meaning of the thing that has happened. It seems that I know about it. I do not hesitate to answer. It must be that I have been consulting the crystal, for I seem sure of what I say to them. I point toward the door. Or is it something on the wall? Or is it a person? Ah, the picture is gone from the crystal. How irritating, cried Lady Ansley Seaton, who felt that supernatural forces ought to be subject to her convenience. Can't you make it come back if you concentrate? Madalena shook her head. No, it will not come back. I am sure of that. Because when the crystal clouds as if milk were pouring into it, I know that I shall never see the same picture again. Whether it is a cross current in myself or the crystal, I cannot tell. But it amounts to the same thing. I am sorry. It is useless to try any more. Shall we go to the other room and have tea? Constance did not persist, as she wished to do. She had to take the Countess's word that further effort would be useless, but she felt thwarted as if the curtain had fallen by mistake in the middle of an act, and the characters on the stage had availed themselves of the chance to go home. It was vexatious enough that Madalena had not been able to explain the mystery of last night. But this was ten times more annoying. Am I not to know the end of the act, she asked, as her host is poor tea? The latter shrugged her shoulders, as if to shake off responsibility. Ah, I cannot tell. Perhaps if—she stopped and handed her guest a cup. Perhaps if what? Oh, nothing! Madalena tasted her own tea and put in more cream. Do tell me what you are going to say, dear Countess, unless you want me to die of curiosity. I should be sorry to have you do that, smiled Madalena. But if I said what I was going to say, you might misunderstand. You might think I was asking for an invitation. Instantly Constance's mind unveiled the other's meaning. There was to be an Easter-party at Valley House, a very smart party. The Countess de Santiago wished to be a member of it. Lady Ansley Seaton, shrewd as she was, had a vein of superstition running through her nature, and though one side of that nature said that the scene with the crystal had been arranged for this end, the other side held its belief in the vision. You mean, she said, that if you should be at Valley House when the thing happens, and we are puzzled and upset about it, you might be able to help? The fancy passed through my head. It was the picture in the crystal suggested it, Madalena explained. Do have an eclair. Face and voice expressed indifference, but Constance knew that the other had set her heart on being at Valley House for Easter. And there was really no visible reason why she shouldn't be there. People liked her well enough. She was never a bore. Well, you must be in at the death with the rest of us, Lady Ansley Seaton assured her. Of course, though it's my house, this Easter-party is practically the Nelson Smith's affair. You know what poverty stricken wretches we are. They are paying all expenses and taking the servants, so I suppose I am bound to go through the form of consulting Anne before I ask even you. Still, Madalena's eyes flamed. Consult your cousin's husband, she said. It is only he who counts, as a favour to me speak to him. Constance smiled at the other over her teacup with a narrow gaze. Why shouldn't I speak to them together? Because I want to know what to think. If he says no, it will be a test. Very well, so be it, said Constance, making light of what she knew was somehow serious. I'll tackle Nelson alone without Anne. That is all I want. And if I am asked to be of your party, I think I can't tell why, but I feel it strongly, that everybody may have some reason for being glad. It seemed unlikely that there would be a chance for a talk that evening as Nelson Smith was dining at one of the clubs he had joined. The other three members of the household were to have a hasty dinner and go to the first performance of a new play, a play in which Knight was not interested. Afterward they expected to sup at the Savoy, with the friend who had asked them to her box at the theatre. But the box was empty, say, for themselves. While they wondered, a messenger brought a note of regret, sudden illness had kept their would-be hostess in her room. Without her the supper was considered not worthwhile. The play had run late and the trio voted for home and bed. If Nelson has come, I'll try and have a word with him tonight, after all, thought Constance, provided I can keep my promise by getting Anne out of the way. Then I can phone to Madalena early in the morning, yes or no, and put her out of her suspense. No such luck, though, as that he will have got back from his club. He had got back, however. The entrance hall was in twilight, when Dick Ansley Seaton let them into the house with his latch-key, for all the electric lights save one were turned off. That one was shaded with red silk, and in the ready glow it was easy to see the line of light under the door of the den. Ansley noticed it, but made no comment. Knight never asked her to join him in the den, but alluded to it as an untidy place, a mere workroom which he kept littered with papers, and only the new butler, Charrington, was allowed to straighten its disorder. This, of course, was not Butler's business, but Knight said the footmen were stupid, and Charrington had been persuaded or bribed into performing the duty. Ansley's life of suppression had made her shy of putting herself forward, and though Knight had never told her that she would be a disturbing element in the den, his silence had bolted the door for her. Constance, however, was not so fastidious. Oh, look, she said, before Dick had time to switch on another light. Nelson's got tired of his club and come home. As she spoke, almost as if she had wielded, the door opened, but it was not Knight who came out. It was the younger Charrington, though chauffeur, called Char, to distinguish him from his solemn elder brother, the butler. The red-haired, red-faced, black-eyed young man stopped suddenly at the sight of the newcomers. He had evidently expected to find the hall untenanted. Taking up his stand before the door, he barred the way with his tall, liveried figure, and it struck Constance that he looked aggressive as if, had he dared, he would have shut the door again almost in her face. I beg your pardon, madame. He said in so loud a voice that it was like a warning to his master that an intruder might be expected. It occurred to her also, for the first time, that his accent sounded rather American, and he had forgotten to address her as, my lady. This was odd, for his brother was the most typical English butler imaginable, as Nelson had remarked soon after the two servants had been engaged. She stared surprised, but Char still kept the door until his master showed himself in the lighted aperture. Then the chauffeur, saluting courteously, stepped aside. Funny that he should be here, thought Constance. She might have been malicious enough to imagine that Nelson Smith had drunk too heavily at his club, and had been helped into the house by Char, who wished to protect him until the last, but he was unmistakably his usual self, cool and more than ordinarily alert. Oh, how do you do, he exclaimed. I heard Char say, madame, and thought it was Anita at the door. No, she has gone upstairs, explained Lady Ansley Seton, so his dick, I alone, had courage to linger. I feel like Fatima, with the blood-stained key in Bluebeard's house. You are such a bear about this, Dan. You really are, you know. I didn't expect you three so soon, said Knight calmly. If I'd known you had a curiosity to see Bluebeard's chamber, I'd have had it smartened up. As it is, I shouldn't dare let you peep. You, the mistress of the house before we took it over, would be critical of the state I delight to keep it in. Untightiness is my one fault. I'll put off the visit till a more propitious hour, Constance reassured him. If you'll spare me a moment in the hall. It's only a word about Maddalena. She has asked me to call her that. The Countess de Santiago, Knight questioned, smiling. He closed the door of the den and came out into the hall, turning on still another of the lights. Yes, I've been to see her to-day. Will you believe it? She saw the whole affair of last night in her crystal, and the thief and everything. Oh, indeed, did she! How intelligent! But she says we mustn't mention her name to the police. She'd be lumped with common or garden-palmest and fortune-tellers, I suppose. Yes, that's what she fears, but she wants to be in our Devonshire house-party at Easter to save us from something. Knight looked interested. Save us from what? She couldn't see it distinctly in the crystal. He laughed. She could see distinctly that she wanted to be there. Well, we hadn't thought of having her. She seemed out of the picture with the lot who were coming. The Duchess of Peoples, for instance. But we'll think it over. Why don't you ask Anita? It occurs to me that she is the one to be consulted. Now was the moment for Maddalena's test. The Countess wished me to speak to you alone and let you decide. Probably because you're such an old friend. I think she feels that Anita doesn't care for her. Knight's face hardened. She gave you that impression, did she? Yet, thinking Anita doesn't like her. And she's nearly right. She wants to come all the same. She wants to presume on my—er—friendship to force herself on my wife. Jove! I guess that's a little too strong for me. It's time we showed the fair Maddalena her place. Don't you think so, Lady A? What precisely is her place, Connie laughed? Well, she seems determined to push herself into the foreground. My idea is that what artists call middle distance is better suited to her colouring. Seriously, I resent her putting you up to appeal to me over Anita's head. I'm not taking any. Please tell her, or write, or phone, or whatever you've arranged to do, that we're both sorry—say both please—that we don't feel justified in persuading you to add her to the list of guests at this time, as Valley House will be full up. She will be hurt, objected Constance. I'm inclined to think she deserves to be hurt. Oh, well, if you've made up your mind, but she's a charming woman, of course. Still, I shouldn't wonder if there's something of the tigress in her, and she could give a nasty dig. Let her try, said Knight. In the morning Constance telephoned to the flat in Catigan Gardens. She had not long to wait for an answer to her call. The Countess was evidently expecting to hear from her early in the day. He wasn't in the right mood, I'm afraid. When I spoke to him, Connie temporised, he seemed to resent your wish to, as he expressed it, get at him over Anne's head. Now that is what I wanted to be sure of, Madalena answered. Now I know. CHAPTER XV. Nelson Smith at home. The Countess de Santiago took her defeat like a soldier. But her line, both of attack and defence, was of the sapping and mining order. Once she had cared as deeply as it was in her to care for the man known to London as Nelson Smith. He was of the type which calls forth intense feelings in others. Men liked him immensely or disliked him extremely. Women admired him fervently or detested him cordially. It was not possible to regard him with indifference. His personality was too magnetic to leave his neighbours cold, and as a rule it was only those whom he wished to keep at a distance who disliked him. As for Magdalena de Santiago, for a time she had enjoyed thinking herself in love. There were reasons she knew why she could not hope to be the man's wife, and if he had chosen a plain woman to help him on in the world she would have made no objection to his marriage. But at first sight she had realised that Anna'sly Grail, shy and unconscious of power to charm as she was, might be dangerous. Magdalena had anxiously watched the two together, and at breakfast the day before the wedding she had distrusted the light in the man's eyes as he had looked at the girl. It had seemed incredible that he should be in love with a creature so pale, so formless still in character as Anna'sly appeared to Magdalena, that a man like Dawn should be caught by a pair of grey eyes and a softness which was only the beauty of youth. Still the Countess had been made to suffer, and if she could have found a way to prevent the marriage without alienating her friend she would have seized it. But she could think of no way except to drop a sharp reminder of what Dawn owed to her. The hint had been unheeded. The marriage had taken place, and Magdalena had been obliged to play the part of the bride's friend and chaperone. Afterward, to be sure, she had been paid. Her reward had come in the shape of invitations and meetings with desirable people. Nelson Smith's marriage had given her a place in the world, and at first her success consoled her. Soon, however, the pain of jealousy overcame the anodyne. She could not rest. She was forever asking herself whether Dawn were glad of her success for her own sake, or because it distracted her attention from him. Was he falling in love with his wife, or was his way of looking at the girl, of speaking to the girl, only an intelligent piece of acting in the drama? Once or twice Magdalena tried being cavalier in her manner to annously. She dared not be actually rude, and Nelson Smith appeared not to notice, but afterward the offender was punished by missing some invitation. This might have been taken as the proof for which she searched. Could she have been sure where lay the responsibility for the slight? Whether on the shoulders of annously, or of annously's husband. Magdalena strove to make herself believe that the fault was the girl's. But she could not decide. Sometimes she flattered her vanity that annously was trying to keep her away from Dawn. Again she would wrap herself in black depression as in a pal, believing that the man was seeking an excuse to put her outside the intimacy of his life. Then she burned for revenge upon them both, yet her hands were tied. Her fate seemed to be bound up with the fate of Nelson Smith, and evil which might threaten his career would overwhelm hers also. She spent dark moments in striving to plan some brilliant yet safe coup which would ruin him and annously, in case she should find out that he had tired of her. At last, by must concentration, her mind developed an idea which appeared feasible. She saw a thing she might do without compromising herself. But first she must be certain where the blame lay. Constance annously Seton's explanation over the telephone left her little doubt of the truth. She had the self-control to answer quietly. Then when she had hung up the receiver she let herself go to pieces. She raged up and down the room, swearing in Spanish tears tracing red stains on her magnolia complexion. She dashed a vase full of flowers on the floor and felt a fierce thrill as it crashed to pieces. "'That is you, Michael Donaldson,' she cried. "'Like this I will break you. That girl shall curse the hour of your meeting. She shall wish herself back in the house of the old woman where she was a servant. And you can do nothing, nothing to hurt me.' Later that morning, when she had composed herself, Anna wrote a letter to Lady Annously Seton. My kind friend. I am sorry that I may not be with you for Easter, and sorry for the reason. I can read between the lines, but that does not interest you. Myself I can do no more for your protection in the unknown danger which threatens. But again I am in one of those psychic moods when I have glimpses of things beyond the veil. It comes to me that if the archdeacon friend of your cousin could be asked to join your house-party with his wife, and especially with his relative, who is so rare a judge of jewels, is his name not Ruthven Smith, trouble might be prevented. This is vague advice, but I cannot be more definite, because I am saying these things under guidance. I am not responsible, nor can I explain why the message is sent. I feel that it is important. But you must not mention that it comes from me. Nelson and his wife would resent that, and the scheme would fall to the ground. Right, and tell me what you do. I shall not be easy in my mind until your house-party is over. May all go well. Yours gratefully and affectionately, Madalena. P.S. Better speak of having the Smiths to Mrs. Nelson, not her husband. He might refuse. Archdeacon Smith and his wife and their cousin, Ruthven Smith, were the last persons on earth in whom Constance would have expected the Countess to Santiago to interest herself. All the more therefore was Lady Anasly Seton ready to believe in a supernatural influence. Madalena's request to be kept out of the affair would have meant nothing to her, had she not agreed that the Nelson Smiths would object to the Countess's dictation. Constance proposed the Smith family as guests in a casual way to Anasly when they were out shopping together, saying that it would be nice for Anne to have her friends at Valley House. The Archdeacon wouldn't be able to come, said Anasly. Easter is a busy time for him, and Mrs. Smith wouldn't leave him to go into the country. What a dear, old-fashioned wife, laughed Connie. Well, what about their cousin, that Mr. Ruthven Smith, who used to stay at your Gorgons till our friend the burglar band called on him? There are things in Valley House which would interest an expert in jewels, and you've never asked him to anything, have you? Oh, yes, said Anasly. He's been invited every time I've asked the Archdeacon and Mrs. Smith, but he always refused, saying he was too deaf and dull for dinner parties. I'm sure he would hate a house party far worse. Why not give the poor man a chance to decide, Constance persisted? He must be a nervous wreck since the burglary. A change ought to do him good. Besides, he would love Valley House. If you like to make a wager, I bet you something that he'd jump at the invitation. Anasly refused the wager, but she agreed that it would be nice to have all three of the Smiths. Constance was supposed to be hostess in her own house, though Knight was responsible for the financial side of the Easter plan, and it was for her to ask the guests, even those chosen by the Nelson Smiths. Remembering Madeleina's hint that Nelson might refuse to add Ruthven Smith's name to the list, Connie gave Anasly no time to consult her husband. While her companion was being fitted for a frock at Herod's, Lady Anasly Seton availed herself of the chance to write two letters, one to Mrs. Smith inviting her in the Archdeacon, another to Ruthven, saying that she wrote, at dear Anne's express wish, as well as her own. She added cordially on her own account, I have heard so much of you for man that it would be a pleasure to show you the Valley House treasures, which I think you would appreciate. Do come. She stamped her letters and slipped them into their box at the Herod Post Office, before going to see if Anne were ready. Nothing more was said about the imitation for the Smiths until that evening at dinner, when it occurred to Anasly to mention it. Knight had come home late, just in time to dress, and she had not thought to speak of the house party. Oh, Knight, she said. Cousin Constance proposed asking the Archdeacon and his wife and Mr. Ruthven Smith. I'm sure the Archdeacon can't come, but Mr. Ruthven might, perhaps. Oh, I don't think I'd have him with a lot of people he doesn't know, and who don't want to know him, Knight vetoed the idea. He's clever in his way, but it's not a social way. Among the lot we're going to have he'd be like an owl among peacocks. But he'd love their jewels, Anasly persevered. They'll bring some of the most beautiful ones in England. You said so yourself. I'm thinking more of their pleasure than his, said Knight. He's deaf as well as dull. The peacocks are invited already, and the owl isn't, so I'm afraid he is. When Anne agreed that she'd like to have the Smiths, I wrote it once, and by this time they've got my letters. Constance broke in with a pretense at Penitence. Oh, dear, I have put my foot into it with the best intentions. What shall we do? Nothing, said Knight, if they've been asked they must come if they want to. I doubt if they will. That doubt was dispelled with the morning post. Mrs. Smith was full of regrets for herself and the Archdeacon, but Ruthfinn accepted in his precise manner with much pleasure and gratitude for so kind in attention. The matter was settled, and Connie telephoned to Maddalena. No Archdeacon, no Mrs. Archdeacon, but I've bagged the jewelman. Will he be strong enough alone to spread over us that mantle of mysterious protection your crystal showed you? I hope so, the Countess answered. Yet the woman at the other end of the wire thought the voice sounded dull and was disappointed, even vaguely anxious. Her anxiety would have increased if she could have seen the face of the Cirrus. Now that the match was close to the fuse, Maddalena had a wild impulse to draw back. It was not too late. Nothing irrevocable had been done. Ruthfinn Smith's acceptance of the invitation to Valley House would mean only a few days of boredom for his fellow guests, unless she herself made the next move in the game. Before she decided to make it, she resolved to see the man of whom she thought as Michael Donaldson. So far nothing can happen to raise any visible barrier between them. She was not supposed to know that he did not want her to join the Easter House party, and he and she and Anisly were on friendly terms. It would be easy for her to see Don, to see him alone if she could only choose the right time, unless—there wasn't unless, but she thought the face of the butler would settle it. There were certain times on certain days when Nelson Smith was at home for certain people. These days were not those when Anisly and Constance were at home. In fact, they had been chosen purposely in order not to clash. The American millionaire had, from his first appearance in London, interested himself in more than one charitable society. Representatives of these associations called upon him during appointed hours, and were shown straight to his den. Indeed, they were the only persons welcomed there, but the countess to Santiago had some reason to expect that an exception might be made in her favor. Luckily, the day when she heard the news from Lady Anisly Seton was one of the two days in the week when Nelson Smith was certain not to be out of the house in the afternoon. Luckily also she knew that his wife was equally certain to be absent. Anita was going to play bridge at a house where Madalena was invited. She got her made to telephone an excuse. The countess had a bad headache. Had she said heartache it would have been nearer the truth. But one does not tell the truth in these matters. Not for years, not since the strenuous times when Don had saved her from serious trouble and put her on the road to success had Madalena Santiago been so unhappy. Whichever way she looked she saw darkness ahead, yet she hoped something from her talk with Don. Just what she did not specify to herself in words, but something. I wish to see Mr. Nelson Smith on important business, she said, looking the butlers straight in the eyes. It was he who opened the door of the Portman Square House on the charity days. He gave her back look for look, losing the air of respectable servitude and suddenly becoming a human being. Mr. Smith is not alone, he answered, contriving to give some special meaning to the ordinary words which made them almost cryptic. But I think he will be free before long if you care to wait, madame, and I will mention that you are here. You must say it is important, she impressed upon him as she was ushered into a little reception room. A few minutes later Charrington took her to the door of the den, where Knight received her with casual cheerfulness. This is an unexpected pleasure, he said. Don't let us bother with conventionalities, Don, she exclaimed, her emotions showing itself in petulance. I had to come and have an understanding with you. An understanding? Knight was very calm, so calm that she, who knew him in many places, was stung with the conviction that he needed to ask no questions. He was temporizing, and her anger, passionate, unavailing anger, beating itself like waves on the rock of his strong nature, broke out in tears. You know what I mean, she choked on the words. You're tired of me. There's nothing more I can do for you, and so—and so—oh, Don, say I'm wrong, say it's a mistake, say it's not you, but she who doesn't want me. She's jealous. Only say that. It's all I want. Just to know it is not you who are so cruel, after the past. It remained unmoved. He looked straight at her, frowning. What past, he inquired, blankly. You ask me that. You? We have never been anything to one another, Knight said. Not even friends. You know that as well as I do. We've been valuable to each other after a fashion. I to you, you to me, and we can be the same in future if you don't choose to play the fool. She was cowed, and hated herself for being cowed. Hated Knight, too. What do you call playing the fool, she asked? Behaving as you're behaving now, and as you've been behaving these last few weeks. I'm not blind, you know. You have been trying your power over me. I suppose that's what you'd call the trick. Well, my dear Madalena, it won't work. I hoped you might realize that without making a scene, but you wouldn't. You've brought this on yourself, and there's nothing for it now but a straight talk. My wife is not jealous. It's not in her to be jealous. If she doesn't like you, Madalena, it's instinctive mistrust. I don't think she's even seen the claws sticking out of the velvet. But I have. I've seen exactly what you were up to. You talk about our past. You want to force my hand. You expect me, because I've been a decent pal, and paid what I thought was due to pay a hire a fancy price. I won't. My wife had no hand in keeping you out of the Easter house party. It was I who said you weren't to be asked. You had to be taught that you couldn't dictate terms. You wouldn't take no for an answer, so the lesson had to be more severe than I meant. Now we understand each other. I doubt it, cried Madalena. You mean I don't understand you? I think I do, my friend, and I'm not afraid. If I'm not a white angel, certainly you're not. We're tarred with the same brush. Forget this afternoon, if you like, and I'll forget it. We can go back to where we were before. But only on the promise that she'll be sensible. No cat-scratchings, no mysteries. It was all that the Countess de Santiago could do to bite back the threat which alone would have given her relief. Yet she did bite it back. Her triumph would be incomplete in ruining the man if he could not know that he owed his punishment to her. But she must be satisfied with the second best thing. She dared not put him on his guard, and she dared not let him guess that she meant to strike. He would wonder perhaps when the blow fell, and say to himself, Can Madalena have done this? She must so act that his answer would be, No, it's an accident of fate. Night was not the sort of man who, for a mere wandering suspicion, without an atom of proof would pull a woman down. And there would be no proof. You are not kind, was the only response, she ventured, and you are not just. I did not want to scratch. I would not injure you for the world, even if I could. Yet it does hurt to think our friendship in the past has meant nothing to you, when it has meant so much to me. It hurts. But I must bear it. I shall not trouble you about my feelings again. If she had hoped that her meekness might make him relent she was disappointed. He merely said, very good, we'll go back to where we were. That same evening Madalena wrote to Ruthven Smith. She took pains to disguise her handwriting, and not satisfied with that precaution, went out in a taxi and posted the letter in Hampstead. It was a short letter and it had no signature, but it made an impression on Ruthven Smith. CHAPTER XVI. OF THE SECOND LATCH KEY. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE SECOND LATCH KEY. By Charles Norris and Alice Muriel Williamson. CHAPTER XVI. WHY RUTHVEN SMITH WENT. Never in his life had Ruthven Smith been blessed or cursed by an anonymous letter. He did not know what to make of it or how to treat it. Instead of exciting him as it might had he been a man of mercurial temperament, it irritated him intensely. That was the way when things out of the ordinary happened to Ruthven Smith. He resented them. He was not, and recognized the fact that he was not, the type of man to whom things ought to happen. It was only one strange streak of the artistic in his nature which made him a marvelous judge of jewels, and attracted adventures to come near him. He was constitutionally timid. He was conventional and prim in his thoughts of life and all he desired it to give. He was a creature of a past generation, and whenever in time he had chance to exist he would always have lagged a generation behind. But there was that one colorful streak which somehow, as if by a mistaken creation, had shot a narrow rainbow vein through his drab soul, like a glittering opal in a gray brown rock. He loved jewels. He had known all about them by instinct even before he knew by painstaking research. He could judge jewels and recognize them under any disguise of cutting. He could do this better than almost any one in the world, and he could do nothing else well. Therefore it was preordained that he should find his present position with some such firm as the Van Breaks, and being in it adventures were bound to come. Many attempts to rob him had doubtless been made. One had lately succeeded. His nerves were in a wretched state. He was jumpy by day as well as night and sometimes, when at his worst, he even felt for five minutes at a time that he had better hand in his resignation to the firm, who had employed him for nearly twenty years, and returned into private life like a harried mouse into its hole. But that was only when he was at his very worst. Deep down within him he was aware that, while the breath of life and his inscrutable genius were together in him, he could not, would not, resign. It was part of Ruth Van Smith, an intimate part of him, not to be able to decide for a long time what to do when he was confronted with one of those emergencies unsuited to his temperament. He was afraid of doing the wrong thing, yet was too reserved to consult any one. He generally counted on blundering through somehow, and so it was in the manner of the anonymous letter. He had heard and dimly believed that it was morally wrong, and still worse, quite bad form to take any notice of anonymous letters. But this one must be different, it seemed to him, from any other which anybody had ever received. Duty to his employers, and duty to the one thing he really loved, was above any other duty, and for fear of losing forever an immense and unhoped foreadvantage which might possibly be gained, he dared not ignore the letter. At all events, he had told himself, no matter what he might decide later, it was just as well that he had accepted the invitation to Valley House. Perhaps someone, he could not think who, was playing a stupid practical joke, with the object of getting him there. But he would risk that and go, and let his conduct shape itself according to developments. For instance, if his eyes were able to detect the small detail mysteriously mentioned in the letter, he would feel bound to act as it suggested. Yes, bound to act, but how unpleasant it would be. And the worst of the whole unpleasable affair was that if he did act in that suggested way, and if he accomplished what he might, with dreadful deafness, be supposed to accomplish, it would be the moment when perhaps he might be fooled. If the letter were written by a practical joker, he would be made to look ridiculous in the eyes of all who were in on the secret. And that bought him back to the question which over and over he asked in his mind. Who could have written the anonymous letter? It must be someone acquainted with him, or with his profession, someone who knew the Nelson Smiths and the Annasley Seatons well enough to be aware that there was to be an Easter-party at Valley House. The writer hinted, in vague terms, that he was a private detective aware of certain things, yet so placed that he could have no handling of the affair, except from a distance, and through another person. He pretended a disinterested desire to serve Ruthvin Smith and signed himself a well-wisher, but the nervous recipient of the advice felt that his correspondent was quite likely to be of the class opposed to detectives. What if there were some scheme for a robbery on a vast scale at the Valley House, and this letter were part of the scheme? What if the band of thieves supposed to be working lately in London should try to make him a cat's paw in bringing off their big haul? This was a terrifying idea and more feasible than the one suggested by the anonymous writer, that Mrs. Nelson Smith should—oh, certainly it seemed the wildest nonsense. Still, there was his duty to the Van Vrex. They must be considered ahead of everything. So Ruthvin Smith, nervous as a rabbit who has lost its warren, traveled down to Devonshire on Saturday afternoon, invited to stay at Valley House till Tuesday. It was as Knight had said, the dull, deaf man was as completely out of the picture in that house-party as an owl among peacocks, for he was an inarticulate person, and could not talk interestingly even on his own subject, jewels. His idea of conversation with women was discussion of the weather, contrasting that of England with that of America, or perhaps touching upon politics. He was afraid of questions about jewels lest he should allow himself to be pumped, and the information he might inadvertently give away be somehow used. But he was by birth an education of gentleman, and his relationship to Archdeacon Smith, whom everybody liked, was a passport to people's kindness. Duchesses and countesses were of no particular interest to Ruthvin Smith, but their adornments were fascinating. At Valley House one Duchess and several countesses were assembled for the Easter Party, and they were women whose jewels were famous. Most of these were family heirlooms, but their present owners had had the things reset, and no queen of fairyland or musical comedy could have owned more, becoming, or exquisitely designed, tiaras, crowns, necklaces, earrings, dog collars, brooches, bracelets, and rings than these great ladies. For this reason the ladies themselves were interesting to Ruthvin Smith, and he might have been equally so to them if he would have told them picturesquely all he knew about the history of their wonderful diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and rubies. It was too bad that he wouldn't, for there was not a famous jewel in England or Europe of which Ruthvin Smith had not every ancient scandal in connection with it at his tongue's end. But on his tongue's end it stayed, even when, for the sake of his own pleasure, if nothing else, his hosts and hostesses tried to draw him out. Nevertheless he was not sorry that he had come. There was an element of joy in seeing met together and sparkling together those exquisite historic beauties of which he had read. It had been a bother to Lady Annaslee Seaton and her cousin Anne to decide how Ruthvin Smith should be put at table. In a way he was an outsider, the only one among the guests without a title or military rank, which mechanically indicated his place in relation to others. Besides, no woman would want to have him to scream at. Fortunately, however, there were two women asked on account of their husbands, and so, according to Connie's code, of no importance in themselves. Providence meant them to be pushed here and there like pawns on a chessboard, and they were pushed to either side of Ruthvin Smith at the dinner table on Saturday night. Both had been placated by being told beforehand what a wonderful man he was, with frightfully exciting things to say if he could tactfully be made to say them. But only one of the two had courage or spirit to rise to the occasion. A Lady Cartwright, married to Major Sir Elmer Cartwright, who was always asked to every house whenever the Duchess of Pebbles was invited. Lady Cartwright was Irish, wrote plays, had a sense of humor, and was not jealous of the Duchess. Because she wrote plays, she was continually in search of material, digging it up even when it looked unpromising. I have heard such charming things about you, she began. I beg your pardon, said Ruthvin Smith, unable to believe his ears, and because he was somewhat deaf himself, he could not gauge the inflections of his own voice. Sometimes he spoke almost in a whisper, sometimes very loudly. This time he spoke loudly, and several people, surprised at the sound rising above other sounds like sprayed from a flowing river, paused for an instant to listen. What a wonderful expert in jewels you are, Lady Cartwright replied in a higher tone, realizing that she had a deaf man to deal with. And that you have been one of the sufferers from that gang of thieves Scotland Yard can't lay its hands on. Ruthvin Smith was on the point of shrinking into himself, as it was his want if any personal topic of conversation came up, when it flashed into his mind that here was an opportunity. If he did not take it, so easy a one might not occur again. He braced himself for a supreme effort. Oh, yes, yes, I was robbed, he admitted, a serious loss, some fine pearls I had been buying, not for myself, but for the Van Vrecks. I seldom collect valuables for myself. I only wish these things had been mine. I should not have that sense of being an unfaithful servant, though I did my best. Of course you did, Lady Cartwright soothed him. But these thieves, if it's the same gang, as we all think, are too clever for the cleverest of us. As for the police, they seem to be nowhere. I haven't suffered yet, but each morning when I wake up I'm astonished to find everything as usual. Not that it wouldn't seem as usual, even if the gang had paid us a visit and made a clean sweep of our poor possessions. They appear to be able to leak through key holes, as nothing in the houses they go to is ever disturbed. Anyhow they have latch-keys, retorted Ruthvin Smith, with what for him might be considered gaiety of manner. The thief or thieves who relieved me of my pearls, or rather my employer's pearls, apparently walked in as a member of the household might have done. Among those who had involuntarily suspended talk to hear what Ruthvin Smith was saying about jewels and jewel thieves was anisly. Though the party would never have been, but for night and herself, Dick and Constance were playing host and hostess with all the outward responsibility of those parts. Lord Anisly Seton had a duchess on his right, a countess on his left. Lady Anisly Seton was fenced in by the Duke and the Count pertaining to these ladies. Mrs. Nelson Smith sat between two less important men, who liked the dinner provided by the American millionaire's miraculous new chef, and they could safely be neglected for a moment. Anisly felt that Ruthvin Smith was, in a way, her special guest, and she was anxious that he should not be the failure night had prophesied. She wanted him not to regret that he had flung himself on the tender mercies of this smart house party, and almost equally she wanted his two neighbors not to be bored by him. Night would hate that. He attached so much importance to amusing the people whom he invited. She listened and thought that Mr. Ruthvin Smith and Lady Cartwright seemed to have begun well. Then, as she turned to Lady Cartwright's hunsome husband, the duchess of pebbles was talking to Dick Anisly Seton just then, she caught the word latchkey. It seized her attention. She knew they were speaking of the burglary at Mrs. Ellsworth's house. She heard Ruthvin Smith go on to explain, in his high-pitched voice, that the two women servants had been suspected, but that their characters had emerged stainless from the examination. Besides, he continued, neither of them had a latchkey to give to any outside person. The two women slept together in one room. At the time of the robbery there was no butler. Anisly heard no more. Suddenly the door of her spirit seemed to close. She was shut up within herself, listening to some voice there. What became of your latchkey? it asked. The blood streamed to her face and made her ears tingle, as it used to do when she had been scolded by Mrs. Ellsworth. If anyone had looked at her then, it must have been to wonder what Sir Elmer Cartwright or Lord John Dormer had said to make Mrs. Nelton Smith blush so furiously. She was remembering what she had done with her latchkey. She had given it to night to open the front door, and so escaped from the two watchers who had followed them in a taxi to Torrington Square. She had never thought of it from that moment to this. Could it be possible that some thief had stolen the latchkey from night and used it when Mrs. Ellsworth's house was robbed? Her thoughts concentrated violently upon the key. Had her neighbors spoken, she would not have heard, but they did not speak. She was free to let her thoughts run where they chose. They ran back to the first night of her meeting with Nelton Smith and her arrival with him at the house in Torrington Square. She recalled, as if it were a moment ago, putting the key into his hand, which had been warm and steady, despite the danger he was in, while hers had been trembling and cold. She said to herself that she must ask night, as soon as they were alone together, what he had done with the key, whether he had left it in the house or flung it away. But, of course, he must have left it in the house, or close by, otherwise no thief would have known where it belonged. That made her feel guilty toward Ruthven Smith. She ought not to have been so utterly absorbed in her own affairs that night. She ought to have asked to have the key back, and then to have laid it where it could be found by Mrs. Ellsworth in the morning. Perhaps indirectly she was responsible for the burglary at that house. And, now she thought of it, what a queer burglary it had been. The thieves must certainly have known something about Mrs. Ellsworth, or else in helping themselves to her valuables, it would not have occurred to them to scrawl a sarcastic message. That message had delighted night when he had heard of it. He had laughed and said, I like those chaps. They can have my money when they want it. Since then they had had his money and other possessions. If the theory of the police were right that a gang of foreign thieves was working, London, honestly was glad that she and night had been robbed. It made her feel less to blame for her carelessness in the matter of that latch-key. At least she had suffered, too, and so had night. Could it be, she asked herself, that the watchers were somehow mixed up in the business? Were they the members of the supposed gang? That did not seem likely, for how could a man like night have got involved with thieves? Yet it seemed, from what he had said that night at the Savoy, and never referred to again, as if he were somehow in their power. How curiously like one of them Morello had been. She remembered thinking so with a shock of fear. Then she had lost the feeling of resemblance and told herself that she must have imagined it. The two faces came back to her now, and again she saw them alike. She was glad that night had never invited Morello to call, and glad that when grudgingly she had asked one day after the two men who had witnessed their marriage, night had said, Gone out of England, we caught them just in time. As for the watchers, she had heard no more of them. Night ignored the episode, or the part of it connected with those men. The memory of them was shut up in the lock-box of his past, and he never left the key lying about, as apparently he had left the key of Mrs. Ellsworth's house. Suddenly, while annously listened to Ruthven Smith, she became conscious that, as he talked to Lady Cartwright, his eyes had turned to her. This proves, the fancy ran through her head, that if you look at or even think of people, you attract their attention. She glanced away and at her neighbors. They were both absorbed for the moment. She need not worry lest they should find her neglectful. She took some asparagus which was offered to her, and began to eat it, but she still had the impression that Ruthven Smith was looking at her. She wondered why. He can't be expecting me to scream at him across the table, she thought. Yes, he was saying to Lady Cartwright, it was a misfortune to lose those pearls. Two I had selected to make a pair of earrings can scarcely be duplicated. But none of the things stolen for me compared in value to those our agent lost on board the stick. I suppose you read of that affair? Oh, yes, said Lady Cartwright, her voice raised in deference to her neighbor's deafness. It was most interesting, especially about the clairvoyant woman on board who saw a vision of the thief in her crystal, throwing things into the sea attached to a life-belt with a light on it, or something of the sort, to be picked up by a yacht. One would have supposed, with that information to go on, the police might have recovered the jewels, but they didn't and they probably never will now. I'm not sure the police pinned their faith to the clairvoyant's visions, replied Ruthfyn Smith, with his dry chuckle. Really, but I've understood, though the name wasn't mentioned then, I believe that the woman was that wonderful Countess de Santiago were so excited about. She is certainly extraordinary. Nobody seems to doubt her powers. I rather thought she might be here. Ruthfyn Smith showed no interest in the Countess de Santiago. Once on the subject of jewels it was difficult to shunt him off on another at short notice. Or possibly he had something to say which he particularly wished not to leave unsaid at that stage of the conversation. The newspapers did not publish a description of the jewels stolen on the monarchic, he went on, brushing the Countess de Santiago aside. It was thought best at the time not to give the reporters a list. To me that seemed a mistake. Who knows, for instance, through how many hands the Melindor Diamond may have passed. If some honest person, recognizing it from a description in the papers, for instance, the Melindor Diamond, exclaimed Lady Cartwright, forgetting politeness in her interest, and cutting short a sentence which began dully. Isn't that the wonderful blue diamond that the British Museum refused to buy three years ago? Because it hadn't enough money to spend or something? Quite so, replied Ruthfyn Smith, adding with pride, but the Van Vrecks had enough money. They always have when a unique thing is for sale, and they are rich enough to wait for years, with their money locked up, till somebody comes along who wants the thing. That happened in the case of the Melindor Diamond. The Van Vrecks hoped to sell it to Mr. Pierpont Morgan, but he died and it was left on their hands till this last autumn. Ah, then that lovely blue diamond was sold with the other things the Van Vrecks agent lost on the Monarchic? Was to be sold if the prospective buyer liked it. He had married a white wife, you know, and—oh, yes, of course. It was Lady Eve Cassendon. That marriage made a big sensation among us, horrid, I call it, but she hadn't a penny and they say he's the richest Maharaja in India. The Melindor Diamond was once in his family, I understand, about five hundred years ago, when we first began to get at its history. Ruthven Smith went on, ignoring the Maharaja as he had ignored the Countess de Santiago. It was then the central jewel of a crown. But later, Louis XIV, on obtaining possession of it, had it set in a ring and surrounded with small white brilliance. It still remains in that form, or did so until it was stolen from our agent on the Monarchic. What form it is in and where it is now only those who know can say. So strong was the call from Ruthven Smith's eyes to Annasley's eyes that she was forced to look up. She had been sure that she would meet his gaze fixed upon her, and so it was. He was staring across the table at her, with a curious expression on his long, hatchet face. CHAPTER 17 Ruthven Smith's Eyeglasses Annasley could not read the look, yet she felt that it might be read if her soul and body had not been wrenched apart and hastily flung together again. Upside down it seemed, with her brain where her heart had been, and vice versa. Why had Ruthven Smith looked at her, as he spoke in his loud voice, of the stolen Malendor diamond, a blue diamond set with small brilliance in a ring? Had he found out that she, did he believe? But she could not finish the thought. It seemed as though the ring knight had given her, and told her to hide, was burning her flesh. Could her blue diamond be the famous diamond about which the jewel expert was telling Lady Cartwright? A horrible sensation overcame the girl. She felt her blood-growing cold, and oozing so sluggishly through her veins that she could count the drops, drip, drip, drip. She hoped that she had not turned ghastly pale. Above all things, she hoped that she was not going to faint. If she did that, Ruthven Smith would think, what would he not think? She found herself praying for strength and the power of self- control, that she might reason with her own intelligence. Of course, if this were the diamond, knight didn't dream that it had been stolen. Just then a hand reached out at her left side, and poured champagne into her glass. It was the hand of Charington, the butler. Ansely saw that it was trembling. She had never seen Charington's hand tremble before. Butler's hands were not supposed to tremble. Charington spilled a little champagne on the tablecloth, only a very little, no more than a drop or two, yet Ansely started and glanced up. The butler was moving away when she caught a glimpse of his face. It was red as usual, for his complexion and that of his younger brother were alike in coloring. But there was a look of strain on his features as if he were keeping his muscles taut. Sir Elmer Cartwright began to talk to her. His voice buzzed unmeaningly in her ears as though she were coming out from under the influence of chloroform. What will become of me, she said to herself, and then was afraid she had said it aloud. How awful that would be! Her eyes turned imploringly to Sir Elmer. He was smiling, unaware of anything unusual. Oh, yes! she explained at random. Fortunately, it seemed to be the right answer, and the relief this assurance gave her was like a helping hand to a beginner skating on thin ice. Sir Elmer went on to repeat some story which he said he had been telling the Duchess. Ansely suddenly thought of a woman rider she had seen at a circus when she was a child. The woman stood on the bare back of one horse and drove six others, three abreast, all going very fast and noiselessly round a ring. I must drive my thoughts as she did the horses, came flashing into the girl's head. I must think this out, and I must listen to Sir Elmer and go on giving him right answers, and I must look just as usual. I must. For night's sake she seemed to hear the words whispered. Why for night's sake? Oh, but of course she must try to think how it would involve him, if the blue diamond was the famous one stolen from the Van Vreck's agent on the monarchic. He would not be to blame, or if he had known he would not have bought the diamond. And yet, might he not have known? He had told her few details of his life before they met, but he had said that it had been hard sometimes, that he had traveled among rough people and picked up some of their rough ways. He had confessed frankly that his ideas of right and wrong had got mixed and blunted. From the first he had never let her call him good. Would it seem dreadful to him to buy a jewel which he might guess, from its low cost, had to be got rid of at almost any price? Ansley was forced to admit, much as she loved night, that his daring original nature, so she called it to herself, might enter into strange adventures and intrigues for sheer joy in taking risks. She imagined that some wild escapade, regretted too late, might have led him into association with the Watchers. Maybe they had all three bin members of a secret society, she often told herself, and night had left against the other's will, in spite of threats. That would be like him, and brave and splendid as was his image in her heart. She could not say that he would never be guilty of an act which might be classed as unscrupulous. This admission, instead of distressing, calmed her, allowing that he had certain faults seemed to chase away a dreadful thought which had pressed near, out of sight, yet close, as if it stood behind her chair, leaning over her shoulder. For a moment she felt happy again. She would tell night what she had heard about the Malendor diamond, and how like its description was to hers. Then, no matter how much he might hate to let it go, he must show the blue diamond ring to Mr. Ruthven Smith, and have its identity decided. The girl drew a long breath, and determined to put the subject out of her mind until after dinner, so that Sir Elmer Cartwright need not think her a complete idiot. But the deep sigh that stirred her bosom stirred also the fine gold chain on which hung the blue diamond. The chain lay loosely on her shoulders, lost, or almost lost, among the soft folds of lace. She wore it like that with a low dress, not only to prevent it from attracting attention and making people wonder what ornament she hid, but also because the thin band of gold, if seen, would break the symmetry of line. It was night who had given her this little piece of advice, the first time after their marriage that she had dined with him in evening dress, and since then she had never forgotten to follow it. Tonight, however, feeling suddenly conscious of the chain, she was on the point of looking down to make sure that it was shrouded in her laces. Something stopped her. With a quick warning thump of her heart she glanced across at Ruthven Smith. A few minutes ago he had not been wearing his eyeglasses. Now they were on, pinching the high-bridged, thin nose. And he was peering through them at her, peering at her neck, her dress, as if he searched for something. Ruthven Smith knew about the blue diamond. He knew that she wore it on a chain hidden in her dress. The certainty of this shot through brain and body, like forked lightning, and seemed to sear her flesh. She was afraid. She could not tell yet of what she was afraid. But when she could disentangle her twisted thoughts, one from another, the reason would be clear. Then it was if her mind separated itself from the rest of her, and began to rung back along the path she had traveled with night since the hour of their first meeting. It ran looking on the ground, seeking and picking up things dropped and almost forgotten. Night had not been pleased when the Countess de Santiago talked to him, of their being together on the monarchic. The Countess had seemed wishful to annoy him in some way. She had taken that way. They had known each other well and for a long time. They knew a good deal about each other's affairs. Sometimes one would say that the Countess still liked to annoy night, and he resented that. He had been unwilling to have her asked to Valley House for Easter, though he knew she longed to come. And Ruthven Smith, night had not wanted him. Could it possibly be on account of the Blue Diamond? Had night heard what she had heard, there at the dinner-table, and was he anxious about what might happen next? Hastily she flung a glance toward her husband. He was not looking at her, but it seemed, perhaps she imagined it, that his face had something of the same tense strained expression she had caught on Charringtons. How odd, if it were true, that both should have that look. One would almost fancy that they shared a secret trouble. But Ansley shook the idea away, as she would have shaken a hornet trying to sting. How dare she let such a disloyal fancy even cross the threshold of her mind. A secret between her husband and his servant. A secret concerning the Blue Diamond, which stabbed them both with the same prick of anxiety at the mention of the jewel. No sooner was the venomous thing dislodged than it crept back and settled close over her heart, for night's eyes turned to her and in them was the look of a drowning man. Just for the fraction of a second she saw it, then the curtain was drawn over his real self that had come to the window and signalled for help. He smiled a friendly smile, and took up the conversation with his right-hand neighbor. But he had hidden his soul too late. The message could not be taken back, and Ansley was sure that he too had heard the story Ruth Van Smith had told so loudly to Lady Cartwright. The fact that he had lost his unruffled, nonchalant coolness, even for a single instant, warned Ansley that night must be desperately troubled. He bought the diamond for me, knowing what it was, she told herself, and knowing that it must have been stolen. Of course that's why he made me wear it, where nobody would see. But who else knew, besides the man who sold it to night, somebody must have known, and told Mr. Ruth Van Smith, perhaps the thief himself, hoping to be spared, and to get money from both sides. That is why Mr. Ruth Van Smith accepted the invitation here, which I was so sure he would refuse. He has come because he thinks the Malendor diamond is in this house. That must be it. But how can he have found out I am wearing it? As she thought these things, asking herself questions, sometimes answering them, sometimes unable to answer, she managed to keep up some dulcetory talk first with one of her neighbors, then with the other. It seemed to take all of her strength to do this, and made her feel weak and broken, not excited and vital, as she had felt on the wonderful night at the Savoy, when Nelson Smith had praised her pluck and presence of mind, in saving him from a danger which had never been explained. How she wished, with all her anxious troubled heart, that she knew how to save him to-night. It had been very wrong to buy a stolen diamond, but he had done it from no mercenary motives, for he had given it to her. She supposed that he had loved the beautiful thing, and felt when it was offered to him that he could not bear to let it go. Perhaps the Countess de Santiago had stolen it on the monarchic. That might be a cruel thought, but Ansley could not help having it, for it would explain many things. Besides, it would help to exonerate night. He was very chivalrous where women were concerned, and he would have felt bound to protect his old friend. At all events he could not have given her up to justice, and very likely she had been in debt and needed money. She had wonderful clothes and must be extravagant. Yes, the more Ansley dwelt on the idea, the more convinced she became that Madalena de Santiago had stolen the blue diamond, and perhaps all of the other things on the monarchic, while pretending to have a vision in her crystal of the thief, and of the way the jewel had been smuggled off the ship. Then the Countess had been angry with night, and had tried to have him suspected, even of being mixed up in the theft, though that last idea seemed too far fetched. How hateful, how mean of her, Ansley thought, ashamed because it was so easy to believe bad things of the Countess, and to pile up one upon another. Probably she put it into constant defense's head to suggest having Mr. Ruthven Smith asked, and then she put it into his head to—to— The girl stopped short, appalled. What had been put into the jewel expert's head? What precisely had he come to Valley House to do? He has come to find the blue diamond, the answer flashed into her brain. Madalena de Santiago's eyes were as piercing as they were beautiful. She might have noticed the fine gold chain which her pal's wife wore always round her neck. She might have guessed that the ring with the blue diamond was hidden at the end of the chain. Yet she could not know for certain, because night would never have told her that. Therefore it followed that neither could Ruthven Smith know for certain. He meant to find out, and if he did find out, night would be punished far more severely than he deserved for buying a thing illegally come by. I will save him again, Ansley resolved. But how? What might she expect to happen? And whatever it was, how could she prevent it happening? End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of The Second Lodgekey This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicole Carl, St. Louis, Missouri, October 2007. The Second Lodgekey by Charles Norris and Alice Muriel-Williamson. Chapter 18 The Star Sapphire Picture after picture grew and faded in her mind. She saw policemen coming to the house. She saw Ruthven Smith demanding that she and night be searched and arrested if the diamond were found. It might be difficult to prove that they had had nothing to do with the theft, especially as night had been on board the monarchic. He must have traveled under his own name then, the name that he had not let her see when he wrote it in the register after the wedding. If Ruthven Smith knew about the monarchic, and the change of name, he might make things very unpleasant for night. And what must he himself be thinking at this moment as he peered through his eyeglasses? Anselie had always told herself that Ruthven Smith looked like a schoolmaster. He looked more than ever like one tonight, a very severe schoolmaster, planning to punish a rebellious pupil. But he can't have accepted our invitation, and have come to this house to make a scene and a scandal before everybody she tried to reassure her troubled heart. Still, he wouldn't look like that if he didn't believe that I'm wearing the diamond, and if he did not mean to do something about it. It was a terrifying prospect for Anselie, and suddenly, with a shock of certainty, she told herself that Ruthven Smith would not give her time if he could help it to get rid of the ring and conceal it somewhere else. He'll think of an excuse after dinner to make me show what I have on my chain, or perhaps he has thought of the excuse already. It seemed to the girl that the room had become bitterly cold. She shivered slightly. I must take off the ring and put something else on the chain when we go away and leave the men, she decided. But no. Even then, it might be too late. Ruthven Smith never smoked nor drank. Very likely he would follow the ladies to the drawing room without giving her the chance of cheating him. If she were to save night from trouble, she must do the thing she had to do at once. That thing was to unfasten the clasp at the chain, slip off the ring with the blue diamond, substitute another ring, fasten the chain again, and replace it inside her dress, all without letting Ruthven Smith across the table or her neighbor suspect what was being done. Her plate was whisked away at that moment, and leaning back in her chair, she seized the opportunity of looking at her hands. Brain and heart were throbbing so fast that she could not remember, without counting what ring she had put on. Night had tried to console her for the loss she'd suffered through the burglary of fortnight before, by making her present of half a dozen new rings. Poor night, how anxious he always was to give her pleasure, no matter at what expense. He had such good taste in choosing jewelry, too, that one might almost fancy him as great an expert as Ruthven Smith. But he had laughed when she said this to him, protesting that he was a rank amateur. The new rings were all beautiful, each unique in its way. The big white diamond of her engagement ring was the least original of her possessions. Tonight, in addition to that and her wedding ring, she wore on her left hand a grayish star sapphire of oval shape, curiously set with four small diamonds, white ones at top and bottom, pale pink and yellow at the sides. This ring was rather large for her, and as she wore it above her engagement ring, the stone slipped easily round toward the palm. The dark blue scarab on her right hand Ruthven might have observed, but she was hopeful that the star sapphire had escaped his notice. She took it off and laid it in her lap, ready. Her dress of white shamos, embroidered with violets, was fastened in front under a folded and crossed fissue of shadow lace, and a bunch of real violets held on by an old-fashioned brooch. Bending forward, she played at eating punctula romaine. While in her left hand, she contrived undue three or four hooks from their delicately worked eyelets. Then slipping two fingers into the aperture, she tore open her lace under bodice. This accomplished she felt the ring of the blue diamond, but she dared not break the chain as she could easily have done. If Ruthven Smith were planning some trick by which to obtain a glimpse of ring and chain, the latter must be intact. Pinching the chain between thumb and finger patiently, persistently, and very cautiously, she pulled it along until she touched the tiny clasp. As she did this, she glanced down at the lace of her fissue now and then to make sure she did not draw the thin line of gold so tightly across her neck that it became visible and moving. At last, she had the clasp in her hand. Pressed upon sharply, it opened, and the ring with the blue diamond fell into her palm. She pushed it inside her frock down as far as her fingers would reach and slid the star sapphire ring onto the chain before fastening the clasp again. She was shivering still, as if with cold, and her hands trembled so that she could hardly put the hooks of her dress into their eyelets. But somehow she did at last, and was sure that no one had seen. More than one course had come and gone before her stealthy task was finished, and three or four minutes after the last hook had decided to bite, Constance looked to the duchess of pebbles. Everyone rose, and, as Ansley had feared, Ruth and Smith followed the ladies out of the great dining hall. Constance led them to the Chinese drawing room for coffee, and as the women grouped themselves to chat, or gaze at Buddhas and treasures of ancient dynasties, she suddenly recalled Madalena's last vision in the crystal. It seemed that it would interest rather than frighten her friends to hear it. Besides, if it did frighten them a little, she didn't mind much. She bore the duchess of pebbles and several others a grudge, because they had come to Valley House not on her account, or dicks, but because it was an open secret who were the real host and hostess on this occasion. Last year, if she had invited these people, they would have been dreadfully sorry they were already promised for Easter. It was Nelson Smith's money and popularity which had lured them. They knew they would have wonderful things to eat, and probably the women were counting on presents of Easter eggs in the morning, with exciting surprises inside. Are you all very brave? She asked aloud and gaily, because I just remembered that the Countess de Santiago saw a picture of us in her crystal grouped together as we are now in this very room and something happening. Something nice or horrid asked the duchess, a tall, pretty woman who looked as if Rosetti had created her with finishing touches by Vernon Jones. Ah, she couldn't see. The vision faded, Constance replied, but perhaps we shall see, if this is to be the night. As she spoke, the men came into the room. Ruthen Smith's example was contagious. They had been deserted by the ladies hardly ten minutes ago, and Slee felt sure that night had contrived to hurry the others. He too, then, had guessed why Ruthen Smith had gone out of the dining hall with the women. Perhaps he also had a plan. He came straight to his wife, who was standing with Lady Cartwright, not far off with Ruthen Smith still with his eyeglasses on. He was hovering with a nervous air in front of a cabinet full of beautiful things, at which she scarcely glanced. Seeing night approach Ansley, he lifted his head, took a hesitating step in her direction, and stopped. He looked timid and miserable. He had obstinate. Anita, I've been telling the Duke about that star sapphire I picked up for you the other day. Night began. He says he never saw one with anything resembling a star in it. You fetch it for him to look at. I noticed as you got up from the table that you hadn't put it on tonight. For an instant the girl could not answer if only he had hit upon something else, if only it had occurred to her to hide her left hand after taking off the ring. But she could not have foreseen this. For the first time she was inclined to believe in the account as to Santiago's supernatural power. Could it be that this scene had pictured itself in the crystal? Could it be that now in a moment something dreadful would happen? She realized that night was trusting to the quickness of her wits, that not only had he overheard Ruthen Smith's talk about the Malendor diamond, but he credited her with having caught the drift of the words and counted on her loyalty to help him. As he spoke he looked at her with a wistful, seeking look she had seen in his eyes when they were first married. He's afraid I'm angry with him for buying the diamond in spite of knowing what it was, she thought. But he trusts me to stand by him now. Her mind grew clear. After a pause no longer than the drawing of a breath she was ready to rise to the situation night had created. In fact she saw safety for him and herself as well as a realistic surprise for Ruthen Smith. But the latter rendered brave to act through fear of loss was too quick for her. I beg your pardon. Before you go may I have the pleasure of a nearer look at that beautiful enamel brooch of yours. It was Ensley's impulse to step back and without waiting for permission the narrow head slickly brushed and slightly bald at the top bent over her laces. But she remembered herself in time and stood still. She dared not glance at night to send him a message of encouragement. But she knew that for once even his resourcefulness had failed and that he must be stealing himself for the brutal discovery of his secret. Yet even then she did not guess what Ruthen Smith's plan was until the thing had happened. He peered at the brooch, which represented a bunch of grapes in small, cabochon amethysts and leaves of green enamel, adjusting his eyeglasses they slipped from his nose and fell on the lace of her fissue. Oh, how awkward of me a thousand pardons he cried, making a nervous grab for the glasses which hung from a chain he snatched up her chain as well, and with a quick jerk of seeming and inadvertence wrenched from its warm hiding place a ring with a flash of brilliance and a glint of blue. Anne's Lee's heart had given one great throb and then missed a beat, for there had been an awful instant as the plan developed when her fear that the ring with the blue diamond might, after all her pains, had become entangled with the chain. If it had, the violence of the jerk might have brought it to light. But she had accomplished her task well. She could have worked a smile, though her lips trembled, as she saw the bird of prey look fade from Ruthen Smith's face and turn into bewildered humiliation. Wright was on his side, yet he had the air of a culprit and some wild strain in Anne's Lee's nature which had been asleep till that instant, saying a song of triumph in the victory of her plan over his. How delighted night would be and how amazed and grateful, grateful as he had been when she stood by him with the watchers. As Ruthen Smith stammered apologies, her eyes flashed to nights, but there was none of the defiant laughter she had expected and felt bound to reproach him for later. He was pale, and though his immense power of self-control kept him in check, Anne's Lee shrank almost with horror from the fury of rage against Ruthen Smith, which she read in her husband's gaze on the beating of the veins in his temples. Terrified, lest his anger should break out in words, she hurried on to say what she would have said before the sudden move by the jewel-expert. Here is the sapphire ring you asked about night, she said. I was just going to take off his chain and give it to you to show the Duke when—when Mr. Ruthen Smith took an unwarrantable liberty. Night finished, sentence, icily. I—I meant nothing, really. I can't tell you how I regret, the wretched man stuttered, but night was without mercy. Pray don't try any further, he cut in. My wife is not a figurine in a shop window to have her ornament stared at and pawed over. You are an old friend of hers, Mr. Ruthen Smith, and you are my guest, or rather my friend Anne's Lee Seton's guest. Therefore I will say no more, but in some countries where I have lived such an incident would have ended differently. Oh, please, night, exclaimed Anne's Lee, thankful that at least he had spoken his harsh words, in so low a voice that no one outside their own group of three could hear. But she was shocked out of her brief exultation by his white rage and the depth revealed by the lightning flash of anger. Also she was sorry for Ruthen Smith, even while she resented the plot which it was evident he had come to carry out. With unsteady hands she lifted the delicate chain over her hair and gave it to her husband. The ring is rather large for my finger. Here it is for you to show to the Duke, she reminded him. Thank you, Anita, he said. And she knew that he thanked her for more than what she gave him. I am a thousand times sorry, Ruthen Smith persisted, more sorry than I can ever explain or you will ever know. Indeed it was nothing. The girl comforted him in her soft young voice. But she read in his words a hidden meaning, as she had read one in to-nights. She did know that which he believed she would never know, the meaning of his act, and the effort it had cost to screw his courage to the sticking place. Also, as a star sapphire with its sparkle of diamonds and flashed into sight, she seemed to read his mind. She guessed he must be telling himself that his informant, the Countess, or some other, had mistaken one bluestone for another. Let's go and join Constance and the Duchess, she went on quietly. They're looking at some lovely things you will like to see. And you must forget that night was cross. He has lived in wild places, and he has a hot temper. I deserved what I got, I'm afraid, for mid Ruthen Smith. After all, nothing exciting seems likely to happen tonight in this room in spite of the Countess's prophecy, said Constance. Perhaps it may be tomorrow or Monday. I hope nothing more exciting will happen then than tonight, Ansley exclaimed, with a kindly glance at her companion. She pitied him, but she pitied herself more, for by and by she and night would have to talk this out together. For the first time she dreaded the moment of being alone with her husband. There was a stain of clay on the feet of her idol, and though she had helped him hide it from other's eyes, nothing could be right between them again, until she had told him what she thought, until he had promised to make restitution somehow of the thing he should never have possessed.