"Suzanne! You don't know what you're doing." He grasped both her hands
in his and with a haste that would have seemed ludicrous to him had he
viewed the scene in a picture-play, he hurried her out of his room and
across the hall.

Eric opened her door softly and with no gentle hand shoved Suzanne
inside her room. She seemed like a little animal in his grasp. She
hissed at him; clawed and scratched at his hand. But when he had shut
the door, she did not open it again, and after a moment he went back
to his own room.

His mouth set in a firm line, his heart beating fast, Eric locked his
door with a noiseless turn of the key. It was almost dawn, and the
garden lay like a rare pastel outside his window; but Eric saw none of
it. He scarcely thought, though his lips moved, as if chaotic words
were struggling for utterance.

He looked down at his hand, where two long red scratches oozed a
trickle of blood. After he had washed his hand, he lay down on his bed
and covered his eyes with his arm, against the picture of Suzanne.
Above all else there stood out the gleaming tips of her little shoes,
as he had glimpsed them through the dim light of his room when she
came toward him.

"She wore the Medici boots! The Medici boots! Suzanne must have taken
them from the museum!" Over and over he said it -- "The Medici boots!
The Medici boots!"

Eric rather dreaded breakfast, but when he came down at eight, to the
terrace where a rustic table was set invitingly, he found John and the
lawyer awaiting him. John greeted his brother affectionately.

"Morning, old boy! Hope you slept well. Why so solemn? Feeling seedy?"

"No, no. I am perfectly all right," Eric replied hastily, relieved
that Suzanne was not present. He added with a scarcely noticeable
hesitation, "Suzanne not coming down?"

"No," replied John, easily. "She seemed to want to sleep awhile. Sent
her regrets. She'll see us at lunch."

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