“Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for her maid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal belongings remain absolutely undisturbed.”      

       “Has your Grace any further orders?”      

       “Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?”      

       The man’s head moved in respectful assent.     

      “To Felix,        “No 27, Rue de St. Pierre,          “Avenue de L’Opera, Paris.     “Meet me at Sherry’s Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven p.m.—V. S.”  

       “It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York leaves at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five minutes.”      

       The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.     

       “Duson!”      

       “Your Grace!”      

       “The Duc de Souspennier remains here—or at the bottom of the lake—what matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom you engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan of English proclivities.”      

       “Very good, sir!”      

       “Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriage starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to see me.”      

       The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from his chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He leaned heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him. Slowly his eyes traveled over the landscape.     

       It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretched the gardens—Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here and there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge bordered the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. A wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rolling park, with little belts of pine plantations and a few larger trees here and 

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