A knock on his door roused Lionel at half past eight, and he sprang up clear-eyed and joyous to meet the sun. The events of the previous day sped pleasantly through his brain; and now that the morning was upon him and the London sparrows twittering optimism, he could not dwell seriously on the indignation of his hostess. "Oh, it is bound to be all right!" he said to himself, stropping a razor that he found on the dressing-table and whistling a merry tune. The cold tub strung him to a higher mood, and as he plied the towel he broke into song. "Horchen Sie doch!" said Mizzi approvingly to the cat, as she prepared breakfast and heard the melodious strain: "Er ist ein braver Kerl, der sich nicht erzÜrnt. Er ist ein lustiger Geist, wirklich. Die anderen habe ich zum Besten." No doubt she was right.

Lionel breakfasted alone. Mizzi said that her mistress begged to be excused for an hour; after that she would be ready. The maid lingered a moment more than was necessary after bringing in the coffee, and seemed markedly assiduous for his comfort. But Lionel did not detain her in conversation; he had no intention of elaborating the affaire of the previous night. What amusement fell to his share he was ready to accept with a youthful zest, but he was old enough not to pursue happiness too zealously nor to magnify trifles. A kiss was well enough, provided it embarrassed neither the recipient nor himself. He was never a man to raise false hopes or win success by lies or a pretended love. His philosophy embraced the theory that girls, or some of them at least, liked being petted, and he was not averse from the kindly office. Only, there must be a clear, if unspoken, understanding that he was not to be taken au sÉrieux. This philosophy, of course, did not apply to Beatrice Blair: she was altogether outside routine. He was a butterfly, if you like, but at any rate honest.

So when Mizzi hoped that monsieur had slept well, he said gravely, "Perfectly, ma p'tite," and asked for the morning's newspaper. She brought it, with a pout of resentment, and as she handed it to him discovered a fly on his collar. This she was allowed to remove with the most absolute decorum; but when the operation was finished and she smiled persuasively, he stroked her hair paternally and said, "You must not be foolish, my child." Mizzi retired with a heightened color, and he sat down with satisfaction to the cricket reports and deviled kidneys. To tell the truth, in spite of his arguments he felt slightly ashamed of the momentary swerve from loyalty.

His hostess appeared in due course, looking exceedingly pretty and self-possessed. She was dressed smartly in blue, a color that contrasted favorably with her hair and eyes. Lionel thrilled with gladness at the sight of her, for in brief moments of doubt he had thought that perhaps his imagination had played tricks: the night and artificial lights might possibly have lent her a fascination that would pass with the dawn. Could there indeed be so delightful a creature in London? These doubts, it must be insisted, had been exceedingly brief; still, they had had existence, and the joy of seeing them dissolve like frost in sunlight made life more desirable than ever.

There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized, educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The lady made no reference to the impasse of the night before, and Lionel was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead, they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the present, au revoir."

Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his lodgings—indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any; but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.

Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together. In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed. Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony, but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.

This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when opportunity offered—such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him, but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true, and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.

Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more "gratitude" kisses—no hint of danger. She had referred only once again to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too many years to have any illusions.

So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony. Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more than a friendship to him. Only the remembrance of Lukos kept him from showing something more of his real feelings—the remembrance of Lukos and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.

Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less sympathique with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man. Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame, but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly—but not too friendly—footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers, and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be sensible.... It is very trying."

Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly after lunch to get ready for the matinÉe. Lionel, provided with one of her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening performance.

Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's Marche FunÈbre.

Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table, placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?"

Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.

"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is very depressing to a sunny nature."

Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am sorry," she replied.

"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw, however slight. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.

Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.

He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation, but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked in a moment.

"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because you are the slave of my mistress."

"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her. You may go."

At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect——"

"I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so to a servant——"

The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it.

"A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is true—but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her mistress——"

"That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."

As soon as he touched her the virago subsided. She made not the least resistance as he led her to the door. But as he was opening it she looked up with appealing eyes. "Ah, monsieur!" she whispered piteously; but he was in no mood to be melted. He shut the door upon her, and did not see the rainbow of smiles that played over her face the moment she was in safety.

"She is jealous," mused Lionel, pouring out a cup of tea; "I did not think she would have been so silly."

He wagged his head sadly over the frailty of human nature, and then an unpleasant thought struck him—the accusation of her mistress. "Lies" had been the charge—an ugly word—and on the face of things somewhat plausible. Again he reviewed the arguments for the defense—the lack of all apparent motive for deceit, his uselessness from a blackmailer's standpoint, and the rest,—and the strength of them gave him fresh courage. The strongest argument of all, the remembrance of Beatrice herself, almost clenched the matter. Almost, for he was cautious, and had some knowledge of the world. Still, he was young and hopeful, and the obvious jealousy of Mizzi was an additional reason for discounting her assertions. "Lies or not," he concluded, "it is too amusing to let slip. Besides, she is such a dear...."

The object of his devoted suspicion returned soon after eleven that night, a little tired, but full of kindliness and mirth. "Oh!" she cried, as she entered the room, "I hope you haven't waited supper for me. If so, you must be ravenous——"

"Of course I waited," said Lionel. "Shall I ring?"

"But why hasn't Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of taking off her hat.

"I don't know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight difference, but surely——"

She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"

Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.

"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try to kiss her?"

At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her—the feat had been successfully accomplished.

"Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was turned I could transfer my worship to another?"

"I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not see.

"Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to be relied on. I at once led her from the room."

"Without a kiss?"

"I held her at arm's length," said Lionel proudly.

Beatrice said "H'm" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly, "Please ring the bell."

Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice pressed the electric button, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded, and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his anguish to hear the lady speak.

"She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make sure ... perhaps ... will you come?"

He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town.

"She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "She has gone!"

"And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness. "But she might at least have laid supper first."

"You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies."

Lionel's good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed.

"No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is—forgive me—too crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama."

Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful.

"You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress."

The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more."

"She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one great mistake—natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one day, when I was in need of a woman's sympathy and help, I told her all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late for regrets or fears. Now we must act."