They rushed from Paris once more into the country, with its spring
perfumes, its soft breezes, its restful green, but fast though they
drove another messenger had outstripped them. From the little chapel,
as the car rolled up the avenue, came the slow tolling of a bell.
Madame Christophor stood on the corner of the lawn alone. The invalid
chair was empty. The blinds of the villa were being slowly lowered. She
turned around and looked toward the city. It seemed to her that she
could see into the rooms of the man whom she had left a few minutes
ago. A lark was singing over her head. She lifted her eyes and looked
past him up to the blue sky. Her lips moved, but never a sound escaped
her. Yet the man who sat in his rooms at that moment, yawning and
wondering where to spend the evening, and which companion he should
summon by telephone to amuse him, felt a sudden shiver in his veins.




CHAPTER II


AN INDISCREET LETTER


The library of the house in Grosvenor Square was spacious, handsome and
ornate. Mr. Algernon H. Carraby, M.P., who sat dictating letters to a
secretary in an attitude which his favorite photographer had rendered
exceedingly familiar, at any rate among his constituents, was also, in
his way, handsome and ornate. Mrs. Carraby, who had just entered the
room, fulfilled in an even greater degree these same characteristics.
It was acknowledged to be a very satisfactory household.