gathered the note in the palm of her hand and making a movement as if to take her handkerchief, slipped it secretly into her bosom. Another thought came to her.

“You are really rich then! You could make a little home, a little safe home, where there would be no clients or patrons or starving. Oh, that would be different!” she said in a wondering voice. “I take back what I said about the end her grand passion would lead her to.” Henriette glanced again towards Marguerite. “She is chic, eh? She has style, the little one? An air of good breeding. Whence does it come? How is it that she has kept it?” Paul could have answered that question had he wished to. She had kept it because of her immense pride and self-respect, she had probably got it to keep, from the same source. Henriette looked from the girl dancing to the officer at the table.

“A little home, eh. If it could be!” she pleaded. Paul gazed at her with a smile upon his lips and in his eyes, but he did not answer her, and she flung away.

“Oh, you are a box with the lid shut! Good-night, Monsieur!”

“Good-night, Mademoiselle Henriette.”

A few moments later Paul Ravenel followed Henriette into the Bar. He stopped before the counter where Madame Delagrange was vigorously wiping the wet rings made by the bottoms of the glasses from the light polished wood. She had always the duster in her hand, except when she was measuring out her drinks into the glasses, and very often then, and generally was at work with it.

“This is quite Maxim’s, Madam,” he said.

The flattery had little effect. Madame barely paused in her polishing and smiled sourly.

“In that case I must see about raising my prices, Monsieur,” said she. No, clearly she did not like the officers. Paul went on to the door. Marguerite, seated with the Levantines, never looked at him, but just as he was going out she raised her glass to her lips with a little nod of her head, as though she drank a health to some absent friend, and her slow smile dawned and trembled on her lips.

But the night was not yet over for Paul Ravenel. As he reached his house he heard his name called aloud and turning about saw his friend Gerard de Montignac hurrying towards him.

“There is news at last,” he said.

The town had been full of rumours for many 

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