aul did not reach Nice in a particularly pleasant mood. He knew that the task of finding the lady was much less simple than it had been at Langres. But he made a thorough search through the visitors' lists of all the hotels.

His persistence, however, found no reward. He could find no trace of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch whatever.

He had been in Nice two days, and his unsuccessful search began to tell upon his nerves. Realizing the need of relaxation of some sort—some diversion which might for the time being, turn his mind upon trivial things—he decided to spend an evening at Monte Carlo.

Paul was no great gambler—it was a sport in which he had never taken more than a passing interest, but just then he thought it would serve his purpose.

He found himself after dinner therefore in the Casino at Monte Carlo, in a room flooded with light and with many people present—a quiet room for all that, for there was little sound except the monotonous cry of croupiers and the sharp rattle of a ricochetting roulette ball.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the room, only to stand still again and remain motionless, as though turned to stone.

For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of gold and notes before her, heavily veiled, sat—Mademoiselle Vseslavitch.

A little cry which Paul could not prevent breaking from his lips drew the eyes of all upon him. Mademoiselle herself glanced up and saw his gaze upon her.

She started and instantly Paul turned away and endeavoured to hide himself amid the odd jumble of men who stood round the table watching the play.

"What was she doing here?" Paul thought. A thousand bewildering conjectures flashed into his brain, only to prove inadequate.

Try as he might he could not reconcile the so obvious fact that she was a lady with the peculiar incidents which trod hard upon each other's heels. He recalled the meeting with the strange Frenchman, which still remained a most baffling mystery.

Unconsciously, Paul took note of the men who hemmed the table in. Every type of face presented itself—the fleshy cheeks of middle-aged Jews, of pale clerks and salesmen, prosperous-looking men who might have been commercial travellers, and here and there a more refined-looking man in evening-dress.

A few were still playing, but the majority were watching the fortunes of the veiled lady. She was, besides, the only woman in the room.

Paul stood for a few moments and watched her play. Nor was it difficult, even to his unpracticed eye, to see that she had begun to wage a losing fight against the bank.

Draped in a long opera cloak from which her bare arms were thrust, she sat forward eagerly in her chair, her lips trembling, her eyes bright as stars.

Her face and figure were in extraordinary contrast to her surroundings.

Every man in the room, Paul thought, appeared to feel that he was in the presence of one who not only had the right, but the power, to command respect, and the coarse faces by which she was surrounded surveyed her with a certain deference.

As the game went on and the croupier monotonously raked in the winnings of the bank, Paul suddenly divined the motive which had induced the lady to come there. Undoubtedly it was the hope that she might win enough to satisfy the cruel demands of those who persecuted her.

Quite evidently disturbed by his entrance, for the next few minutes she had apparently lost all track of the successful theory which she had been following. And Paul knew well enough that if a good player once becomes unnerved, his luck, for some strange reason, will change with his mood, and no efforts, however bold or desperate, will avail him anything.

It amazed Verdayne beyond measure that the lady could play such a game with so consummate a skill and so much evidence of experience. He judged that at some time or other she had had a little fling at Monte Carlo, and that profiting by such knowledge as she had acquired before, she had now been playing an inspired game for some incalculable stake.

If she won against the bank it would release her from her torment; no other theory was possible.

It made his heart grow cold with rage as he appreciated that he had been made the innocent instrument of such a hard experience for her.

So convinced did he become of this fact that he shouldered his way through the crowd, and leaning over her chair, whispered into her ear:

"Don't be alarmed. I see you have been greatly upset. Please allow me to assist you."

The man at her right hand scowled angrily, but Paul turned to him with an urbane smile. "As you do not seem to be playing," he said, "perhaps you will allow me to have your chair?"

Nor had the man any alternative but to vacate his seat.

Paul's spirits rose as for the first time in his life he found himself seated by the lady's side, playing on her behalf, to win a desperate game.

But the girl's inspiration was gone, and Paul's knowledge of this form of gambling availed him nothing. Time after time they lost until practically nothing remained of the great pile of money which had been stacked on the table before her when he had entered the room.

The girl watched the money dwindle with every evidence of consternation.

Paul sought to console her.

"Don't despair," he whispered. "I think I have enough with me to see us through."

When he had at first sat down to assist her she had stared at him with considerable astonishment. Now she appeared utterly confused.

"I don't understand," she said in a low voice. "You have certainly done your best to help me, but I cannot see why you wish me to win."

Paul turned and looked her full in the eyes.

"How long will it be," he asked in a low voice, "before you come to trust me?"

Without further word he drew from his pocket the liberal supply of bank-notes with which he had prepared himself for his evening's play, and laid them on the table before his astonished companion.

As this little scene had attracted more attention from those about him than pleased Verdayne, he indicated with a slight nod to the croupier to proceed, and calmly placed a pile of gold pieces of large denomination on the green double nought.

The wheel spun. The ball clicked slower and slower. The gaming spirit of the devotees once more claimed them and the veiled lady and her chivalrous escort were forgotten in the interest centered on the little ivory sphere.

Slower and slower and slower it ran, until it settled in place with a last click.

The company drew a mingled long breath. The monotonous sing-song voice of the croupier chanted, "Twenty-six and the black wins," and he raked away the stake from before the veiled lady.

Paul's face never changed, nor did the lady speak. Once more the gold was piled, and once more raked away. The other players, forgetting the strange entrance of the lady's champion, were now absorbed in following his failing fortune.

Again and again Paul lost, until finally the last of the generous pile was swept away. With a truly stoical British smile Paul reached for his cheque book, and glanced about him for some one who possibly could identify him. But the lady rose from the table with a little gasp and steadied herself with her hands on the back of her chair.

At the same moment the door by which Paul had entered opened again, and in there came two gentlemen in evening dress. A third man followed closely behind them, and a flush of irritation crept up the back of Paul's neck as he recognized Schwartzberger.

The room was quite hushed. The men about the table had been awed by the vast sum of money which the mysterious lady had staked and lost.

As she moved a step forward as though to go, they drew aside to give her free passage, so that now she found herself face to face with the men who had just entered.

Looking over her head, Paul saw the pork-packer glance quickly at him, his face a complete study in astonishment. He bowed to the lady, but said nothing. It was Paul who spoke.

"This is most unfortunate," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked the lady.

"Your loss," said Paul hastily. "This is no fit place for you to remain in. Allow me to show you the way out at once."

He thrust himself between her and the two men who had entered, whereupon Schwartzberger burst forth in an angry voice that was perfectly audible to all.

"You damned British hypocrite!" he roared. His face was purple and he seemed suddenly to become inarticulate with rage.

Paul pushed the baize-covered door open and first bowed the lady out.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a formal voice, "you will greatly oblige me by stepping to the other end of the passage. I have something to say to these gentlemen."

Making a little inclination with her head, the lady walked slowly away, leaving Paul to confront Schwartzberger. And Paul by no means minced matters.

"Pardon me," he said, facing about once more, "but your assistance is not required. You will be kind enough to call on me at the HÔtel MÉtropole to-morrow morning, when I shall ask you for an explanation. Till then I have no further need of you." And he turned and passed through the door, leaving the man once more speechless.

With a few steps Paul reached the lady, who was waiting for him. As he approached she turned to him, lifting the heavy veil which had hid her features, and then, leaning toward her in the subdued light of the passage-way, Paul gazed with amazement into the face of—the Comtesse de Boistelle.