she read and re-read with a tightening of those deli-
cate little eyebrows and a grim setting of those de-
licious lips. Suddenly she started, and a shadow of
fear softened the feline menace of her features. She
raised herself upon her arm, and her eyes were fixed
eagerly upon the door. She was listening intently--
listening for something which she dreaded. For a
moment a smile of relief played over her expressive
face. Then with a look of horror she stuffed her letter
into her dress. She had hardly done so before the
door opened, and a young man came briskly into the
room. It was Archie Mason, her husband--the man
whom she had loved, the man for whom she had sacri-
ficed her European fame, the man whom now she
regarded as the one obstacle to a new and wonderful
experience.

The American was a man about thirty, clean-shaven,
athletic, dressed to perfection in a closely-cut suit, which
outlined his perfect figure. He stood at the door with
his arms folded, looking intently at his wife, with a
face which might have been a handsome, sun-tinted
mask save for those vivid eyes. She still leaned upon
her elbow, but her eyes were fixed on his. There was
something terrible in the silent exchange. Each inter-
rogated the other, and each conveyed the thought that
the answer to their question was vital. He might
have been asking, "What have you done?" She in her
turn seemed to be saying, "What do you know?"
Finally, he walked forward, sat down upon the bear-
skin beside her, and taking her delicate ear gently be-
tween his fingers, turned her face towards his.

" Lucille," he said, "are you poisoning me?"

-272-