here come times in every one's life when explanations, even if one might give them, are useless. And Sir Paul Verdayne realized that fact to its fullest when he faced the quasi Countess in the Casino vestibule.

What unhappy inspiration had caused her to dress herself in a manner almost identical with that in which Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had appeared at Lucerne? Mentally, Paul roundly damned a score of times the imitative instinct of the sex. He could not forgive himself for having mistaken a person of the Comtesse's stamp for the lady whom he had sought.

But there the Comtesse stood. And Paul was conscious that in the glance she bent on him there was more than amazement at his Quixotic replenishing of her vanished fortunes. In the excitement of the losing play, she had no thought of the motive which might have prompted Paul's act. Now that it was done, she had instantly decided, after the manner of her kind, that it was a tremendous bid for her favour. And the unconcern with which such a sum had been placed at her disposal appealed to just such a temperament as hers.

The Comtesse de Boistelle was not one to place too low a value upon her own attractiveness. The attentions lavished on her by her porcine American admirer had lacked the artistic touch of this coup of the English nobleman, and she was willing to capitulate on the spot in favour of the latter.

All this—and more—Paul read in the warm, admiring glance of the Comtesse which met his astonished gaze. The horrible futility of any attempt at explanation struck a chill to his heart, and started the perspiration on his forehead. Flight, ignominious flight, seemed the only escape, and yet at this, the sturdy British spirit of Sir Paul rebelled. A flash of inspiration—a memory from his school-days, came to mind, as he groped for a plan, in the line from Virgil, "In the middle way lies safety."

With a bow whose courtesy was irreproachable, Paul spoke first:

"Permit me to send you to your hotel, fair partner of a losing venture." He smiled grimly at the unconscious truth in his chance phrase. "To-morrow may give me the great pleasure of a further acquaintance—and under less depressing circumstances."

Then, before the Comtesse could quite marshal her vocabulary to reply in a fitting manner, Paul had bowed her through the great entrance; the door of the carriage shut, and she was driven away.

The uncomfortable sense of having made a thorough-going ass of himself was not conducive to sound slumber on the part of Sir Paul that night. Nor did it aid in preserving his temper during the unpleasant scene the following morning when Schwartzberger, still furious with rage, called at the hÔtel.

It was a relief, however, to Paul to have some object on which to vent his pent-up feelings, and if the pork-packer did not quite understand all that he said, Paul at least left no mistake in Schwartzberger's mind as to the total lack of grounds for the latter's jealousy, and filled him with a proper awe of the wrath of an Englishman once aroused.

Paul realized that by the time she met Schwartzberger, if not before, the Comtesse would discover the veiled emphasis on mere probability in his parting suggestion as to any future meeting. So he was not surprised to see the tonneau of the big green motor car with its customary occupants whirling past him as he drove to the station that afternoon.

Well! the unbelievable faux pas which he had committed—thanks to chance and his own imbecility—had turned him from his search. He no longer had the heart to linger about Nice peering into strange ladies' faces. The Lord only knew what blunder he would make next if he continued to look for her there!