wail—there can be few things more painful than a twisted ankle, and the pain of that was really unendurable—all at once a light was shining in her face. Her unintentional assailant was carrying a dark lantern; turning the shutter, he flashed it on her. For a second or two the effect it had on her was to make her blinder still; then the hand of the person who was holding it swerved, a pencil of light passed across his face so that she caught a glimpse of it—only one glimpse, but that was enough. "Sydney!" she cried. "My darling! Thank God, it's you." In the first wild rapture of the recognition she forgot everything—her foot, the singularity of the fact that her lover should be there at all; all she thought of was to reach him. Even while she was speaking she moved quickly towards him. That same instant the light was darkened, her foot gave way beneath her. As she sank to the floor she was conscious that the bearer of the lantern, instead of sharing her rapture, of coming to her assistance, of rushing to take her in his arms, was retreating with so much expedition that things were being overturned in all directions in his haste to get away. She had been aware that, as he started back instead of forward, something had fallen from his hand on to the seat of the chair on whose arm she had been resting. He had not stopped to retrieve it, whatever it was. Her hand came into contact with it as she tried to raise herself. It was a leather bag of some sort, so much she learnt from the sense of touch. She found the handle, tried to lift it; it was oddly heavy. As she was still trying to lift it she became conscious that someone else was coming down the stairs. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was filled with a great fear; the presence of that bag had frightened her more than anything else. A cushion was on the ground beside her; she picked it up, using it to cover the bag to the best of her ability so that its presence on the chair need not be at once detected.The person who had descended the stairs had paused at the bottom. A match was struck. If she had only brought a box of matches with her, how much might have been avoided! The holder of the match moved forward towards an electric switch; immediately a light was shining down at her. A voice addressed her: "Miss Forster! What on earth are you doing here?" She looked up at the kindly, friendly face which was bending over her. "Major Reith!" Then something came to her. All at once the world was whirling round; for the first time in her life she had fainted.

CHAPTER XVI The Lacquered Club

There was a sort of self-consciousness in her brain, even though she swooned; something which told her that this was 

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