Olive was at her dressing-table at Thornton Chase, looking searchingly into a mirror.

That afternoon she had been dragged unwillingly to the consulting-room of a Cavendish Square physician by her father, who had insisted on having "a tonic or something" prescribed for her. The physician was one of those men who achieve a fashionable practice by an outrageous bluntness—a calculatedly outrageous bluntness. He had found that women like to be bullied by their doctors.

"You're drugging yourself to a lunatic asylum," he had told her after a very brief examination.

"Drugs? I, doctor?" she had replied with a little surprised raising of her eyebrows.

"Don't prevaricate! Don't try to deceive me. You look a perfect wreck. All the signs of it. Come, which is it—morphia, hashish or what?"

"You're mistaken, doctor. I'm run down, that's all. I want a tonic."

"And I'm a busy man." He rose brusquely and strode to the door to open it for her. "I must wish you good afternoon!"

Olive caved in. "Well, perhaps now and again, when I feel absolutely in need of it, I do take a little stimulant," she conceded.

The physician cross-examined her ruthlessly. Finally he prescribed an absolute cessation of drug-taking, and gave her a special dietary and mixture of his own which would help to create a distaste for the morphia.

"Remember," he warned her as they parted, "you're looking an absolute wreck. Everyone can see it. Three months more of the same pace would make you a hag."

Olive was searching her mirror for refutation of his words, trying to stroke away the flabbiness of her cheek and chin muscles and the heavy strained shadows under the eyes. Yes, it was true—the drug was stamping its mastery on her face, grinning from behind her eyelids.

She must fight it down!

The resolution came hot upon the thought that Clifford had noticed the change in her. No doubt he would like her to drug herself to death. That would suit his plans to perfection. Then he would be free to marry that Verney woman. She must fight down her craving for the drug if only to spite Clifford.

With a curious vindictive satisfaction, Olive took out her hypodermic syringe from its secret place and smashed it to pieces with the bedroom poker. She gathered up the fragments of glass and silver and threw them into the fire, heaping coals over them.

As she was poking the fire, her maid knocked and entered with a letter. The postmark was Wiesbaden; the handwriting was her husband's. No doubt a further appeal to her feelings, she reflected contemptuously. But the letter proved to be from Elaine—written at the invalid's dictation by RiviÈre.

Olive read it with a mixture of indignation and very lively curiosity. The letter was no appeal to her feelings—rather, a challenge:—

"I think we ought to meet," it said. "I have many things to tell you of which you know nothing at present—unless you have guessed. They affect your husband's position very materially. Unfortunately I am confined to a sick-room, else I should have come to London before this in order to call upon you."

That was all.

Olive's indignation was based on the obvious deduction that RiviÈre had confided completely in the girl. Her curiosity was roused by the thoughts of what she could be like to exert such a fascination, and what she could have to say. Perhaps the letter was a ruse to see Olive and then make another appeal for pity. Well, in that case there would be a very delicious pleasure in giving an absolute refusal—a pleasure one could taste in anticipation and linger over in execution. One could play with the girl a little—pretend to be influenced, hesitate, ask for time to consider, raise hopes, fan them, and then administer the coup de grace.

To see Elaine promised an exciting diversion, very welcome just now when Olive had to give up the customary stimulation of the drug.

These considerations united in deciding her to travel to Wiesbaden. She would cross to the Continent alone, her father and her maid being left at home. Sir Francis knew nothing as yet of RiviÈre—for Olive had told him nothing. She had an unlimited capacity for keeping her own counsel when it suited her purpose.

The next day saw her en route for Wiesbaden, following a letter to that effect to Elaine.