Mme Giras, the proprietress of the Villa ClÉmentine, was a rosy, smiling body, plumped and rounded in almost every aspect, and with a heart of gold. Yesterday it had been plain to her shrewd, twinkling eyes that monsieur and mademoiselle were soon to make a match of it. Of course it was very shocking that mademoiselle should be travelling about alone at her age, but much could be forgiven in so charming a young lady.

When RiviÈre returned to the villa for lunch, he found the table in the arbour laid for two, and by one plate a rose had been placed.

"I have prepared for two," said Mme Giras, smilingly. "Is it not right?"

"Thank you; but it will not be necessary," answered RiviÈre.

"After all my preparations! And the lunch that was to be my chef d'oeuvre!" There was keen disappointment in her voice. "But perhaps mademoiselle will be coming to dine this evening?"

"No, nor this evening. Mademoiselle is very busy with her work. She is to leave NÎmes to-morrow."

"And monsieur also?" There was tragedy in her tone. It must mean that monsieur would give up his rooms to follow the young lady.

"I shall probably remain here for a month or more," answered RiviÈre somewhat stiffly: and then to salve her feelings: "You are making me wonderfully comfortable. I shall always associate the Midi with Mme Giras."

"Monsieur est bien amiable!" replied the little old lady, much pleased. She hurried off to the kitchen to see that Marie was making no error of judgment in the mixing of the sauces.

RiviÈre felt glad that the acquaintanceship with Elaine had progressed no further. It was decidedly for the best that it had ended where it had. Both of them had their life-work to call for all their energies. Further companionship would only divert them from it. In his innermost being he knew that, and now he acknowledged it frankly to himself. From every point of view, it was best that their acquaintanceship should end.

But late that afternoon a brief note came from Elaine. "Dear Mr RiviÈre," it said, "I have considered your warning. If you will be so kind as to accompany me this evening while I am sketching the Druids' Tower, I shall be glad. I propose to leave the hotel about eight."

RiviÈre was at her hotel punctually at eight. He helped her into her warm travelling cloak, and taking up her campstool and easel they walked briskly, with healthy, swinging strides, out by the avenue of plane trees bordering the Roman aqueduct.

They ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to the ruined tower which was grey with age when Roman legions first swept in triumph over the country of the barbarians of Gaul. A chill wind set the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. The windowless tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind with years. The moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to disturb its dreaming.

It was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. In the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen stones—unkempt like a ragged tramp—but in the moonlight there was a glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. Elaine was right to make her sketch at night-time. RiviÈre placed the campstool for her, and watched her in silence as she plied her pencil with swift, decisive lines.

With lithe, catlike softness, the youth Crau had followed them up the hillside, padding noiselessly in the shadows of the pines and olives. Crouching behind a tree, he felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a small package which he quietly unwrapped from its foldings. Then he waited his moment with every muscle tensed for action.

The night wind was chill. RiviÈre started to pace up and down a few steps away from Elaine. He approached nearer to the tree behind which Crau was crouching in shadow.

The lithe, wiry figure of the young ProvenÇal sprang out upon him.

"Now you'll pay me what you owe!" he cried out in ProvenÇal. "You cursed pig of an Englishman!"

RiviÈre did not understand the words, but the menace in the voice left no doubt as to the meaning. And the voice brought back to him the narrow ruelle at Arles where he had defended Elaine from the insult of the half-drunken peasant.

He was about to step forward to grapple with him, when a warning cry from Elaine stopped him for one crucial instant.

"Look out! There's something in his hand!" she called, and rushed impetuously forward to make her warning clear.

As she came within range, Crau raised his arm to throw his vitriol into RiviÈre's face, but in a fraction of a second a sudden thought changed the direction of his aim.

"Your beautiful mistress! that will serve me better!" he hissed out venomously as he flung it full upon Elaine; then fled at top speed.

"My eyes! Oh God, my eyes!" she cried, as she staggered to the ground.

RiviÈre sprang to her side, white with alarm. "The beast!"

"My eyes! Oh God, my eyes!" she moaned. "My eyes—my livelihood!"