or Quentin's, perhaps, but on that of the man she was to marry.

It required no great strength of vision to see that Ravorelli was
jealous, and it was just as plain that Quentin saw and enjoyed the
uneasiness he was causing. She could not know, of course, that the
American had deliberately planned to play havoc with the peace and
comfort of her lover, for she recognized no motive. How could she
know that Giovanni Pavesi, the tenor, and Prince Ravorelli were one
and the same to Philip Quentin? How could she know that the
beautiful Malban was slain in Rio Janeiro, and that Philip Quentin
had seen a handsome, dark-eyed youth led to and from the murderer's
dock in that far-away Brazilian city? How, then, could she
understand the conflict that waged with herself as the battlefield?

As for Quentin, he was bound by no law or duty to respect the
position of Prince Ravorelli. He was convinced that the sometime
Romeo had the stain of blood on his delicate hands and that in his
heart he concealed the secret of Carmenita Malban's death. In his
mind, there was no mistake. Quentin's composure was shaken but once
in the fortnight of pleasure preceding Dorothy's departure for
Paris. That was when she indignantly, almost tearfully, called his
attention to the squib in a London society journal which rather
daringly prophesied a "break in the Ravorelli-Garrison match," and
referred plainly to the renewal of an "across-the-Atlantic
affection." When he wrathfully promised to thrash the editor of the
paper, she shocked him by saying that he had created "enough of a
sensation," and he went home with the dazed feeling of one who has
suffered an unexpected blow.

On the evening before the Garrisons crossed the channel, Lord and