At luncheon Jean met her husband, but so agitated was she that she scarce dare raise her eyes to his.

Before entering the dining-room where Bracondale awaited her she halted at the door, and with a strenuous effort calmed herself. Then she went forward with a forced smile upon her lips, though her cheeks were pale and she knew that her hand trembled.

His lordship had spent a strenuous morning with the papers Martin had brought from the Foreign Office. At least two of our Ambassadors to the Powers had asked for instructions, and their questions presented difficult and intricate problems which really ought to have gone before the Cabinet. But as there would not be another meeting just yet, everyone being away on vacation, it devolved upon Bracondale to decide the question of Britain’s policy himself.

In the pretty, cosy room, outside which the striped sun-blinds were down, rendering it cool and pleasant after the midday heat on the beach, the Foreign Minister stood thoughtfully stroking his moustache.

“Well, Jean,” he asked, “had a quiet morning, dear?”

“Yes, delightful,” was her reply. “The heat is, however, rather oppressive.”

“I’m awfully sorry I could not come down to fetch you, dear,” he said; “but I’ve been dreadfully busy all the morning—lots of worries, as you know. I’ve only this moment risen from my table. There are more complications between France and Austria.”

“Oh, I know how busy you are,” she replied as she seated herself at the daintily set-out table, with its flowers, bright silver, and cut glass.

Their luncheons tÊte-À-tÊte were always pleasant, for on such occasions they sat at a small side-table, preferring it to the big centre-table when there were no guests.

“Did you see anyone you knew?” he asked, carelessly, for often Mme. Polivin, the rather stout wife of the Minister of Commerce, went to the sands with her children.

“Well, nobody particular,” was her reply, with feigned unconcern. “Enid enjoyed herself immensely,” she went on quickly. “She didn’t bathe, so I told her to make a sand castle. She was delighted, especially when the water came in under the moat.”

And then, as he seated himself opposite her, old Jenner entered with the hors d’oeuvres.

Jean was thankful that the room, shaded as it was, was in half darkness, so that her husband could not see how pale she was. Through the open windows came the scent of flowers borne upon the warm air, and the silence of the room was over everything.

He began to discuss their plans for the autumn.

“Trevor asks us to go a cruise in his yacht up the Adriatic in October,” he said. “I had a letter from him this morning, dated from Stavanger. You remember what a good time we had with him when we went to Algiers and Tunis two years ago.”

“I’ve never been to the Adriatic,” she remarked.

“I went once, about nine years ago, with that financial fellow Pettigrew—the fellow who afterwards met with a fatal accident in a lift at the Grand in Paris. It was delightful. You would be interested in all the little places along the beautiful Dalmatian coast—Zara, where they make the maraschino; Sebenico, Pola, the Bay of Cattaro, and Ragusa, the old city of the Venetian Republic. Shall we accept?”

“It is awfully kind of your brother-in-law,” she replied. “Yes, I’d love to go—if you could get away.”

“I could come overland and join you at Venice or Trieste, and then we could put into Brindisi or Ancona for any urgent despatches. You see, there’s no convenient rail on the Dalmatian side. Yes, I think I could manage it.”

“Then accept by all means. I love the sea, as you know. Where do they sail from?”

“Marseilles. You will join the Marama there. She will then touch at Genoa, Naples, and go through the Straits of Messina, and I’ll join you in the Adriatic.”

“Helen is going, I suppose?” she remarked, referring to Trevor’s wife. “Of course, and the two Henderson girls, and little Lady Runton. So we shall be a merry party.”

Jean was delighted. In the excitement of the moment she forgot the dark cloud that had fallen upon her.

Yet next second she reflected, and wished that her departure upon that cruiser was immediate, in order that she could escape the man who had so suddenly and unexpectedly returned into her life.

“We shall go to Scotland after our return,” he said. “Remember, we’ve got house parties on the eighth, seventeenth, and thirtieth of November.”

“And Christmas at Bracondale,” she said. “I love spending it there.”

“Or perhaps on the Riviera? Why not? It is warmer,” he suggested.

“It may be, but I really think that nowadays, with the change in the English climate, it is just as warm in Torquay at Christmas as at Nice.”

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps you are right, after all, Jean. If you want warmth and sunshine from December to April you must go to Egypt for it. People have begun to realise that it is often colder in Monte Carlo than in London. And yet it used not to be. I remember when I was a lad and went to Nice with the old governor each winter, we had real warm sunshine. Yes, the climate of the south of Europe has become colder, just as our English climate has become less severe in winter.”

And he ate his lobster salad and drank a glass of Chablis, thoroughly enjoying it after the hard mental strain of the morning.

“I think I shall go for a run in the car this afternoon. I feel to want some fresh air. Will you come?” he asked.

“I think not, dear,” was her reply. “I have a little headache—the sun, I think—so I shall rest.”

“Very well. I’ll have a drive alone.”

“Let’s see,” she exclaimed; “didn’t you say you were going out to-night?”

“Yes, dear, to Polivin’s. There’s a man-party this evening. You don’t mind, do you? I promised him some time ago, and for political reasons I desire to be friendly. I shan’t go till ten o’clock, and no doubt you will go to bed early.”

“By all means go, dear,” she said, very sweetly. “I—I had forgotten the day.”

It was not often he left her alone of an evening when they were together during the recess. In the London season she was, as a political hostess, often compelled to go out alone, while he, too, had frequently to attend functions where it was impossible for her to be present. Sometimes, indeed, days and days passed and they only met at breakfast. Frequently, too, he was so engrossed in affairs of State that, though he was in the house, yet he was closeted hours and hours with Darnborough, with some high Foreign Office official, an ambassador, or a Cabinet Minister.

That big, sombre room of his in the dark, gloomy London mansion was indeed a room of political secrets, just as was his private room at the Foreign Office. If those walls could but speak, what strange tales they might tell—tales of clever juggling with the Powers, of ingenious counter-plots against conspiracies ever arising to disturb the European peace, plots concocted by Britain’s enemies across the seas, and the evolution of master strokes of foreign policy.

“Are you quite sure you prefer not to go for a drive this afternoon?” he asked, looking across at her.

“No, really, dear. I don’t feel at all fit. It is the excessive heat. It was awfully oppressive on the beach.”

“Very well, dear. Rest then, and get right by the time I get in for tea.”

She looked at him from beneath her half-closed lashes.

Why had he asked her whether she had met anyone she knew that morning? It was not a usual question of his.

Could he know anything? Had he been present and seen the meeting?

No, that was impossible. He had been at home all the morning. She had made enquiry of Jenner as she came in, so as to satisfy herself.

Yet there was a strange suspicion in his manner, she thought. It may have been her fancy, nevertheless he seemed unduly curious, and that question of his had set her wondering.

For some moments she ate her dessert in silence.

Before her arose all the horror of that amazing meeting. The words of the criminal who was her husband rang in her ears, cruel, brutal, and relentless. He had threatened to call there at the villa, and hand her letter to Bracondale, a threat which, she knew, he would carry out if she did not appease him and bow to his will.

She was to exchange those pearls, Bracondale’s valued gift, for the silence of a blackmailer and assassin! Ah! the very thought of it drove her to desperation. Yet she was about to do it for Bracondale’s sake; for the sake of little Enid, whom she so dearly loved.

Every word the brute had uttered had burned into her brain. Her temples throbbed as though her skull must burst. But she fought against the evil and against a collapse. She put on a brave front, and when Bracondale addressed her she laughed lightly as though she had not a single care in all the world.

The meal over, she took a scarlet carnation from the silver Épergne between them, broke the stem and, bending, placed it in the lapel of his coat, receiving as reward a fond, sweet kiss, old Jenner having finally left the room.

“Now go and rest, dearest,” his lordship said. “I have a few letters I will write before I go out.”

And he was about to cross to the door when it suddenly opened, and little Enid in her white muslin dress danced into the room, rushing up to her mother’s outstretched arms.

Bracondale caught the child and, taking her up, kissed her fondly.

Then, when he set her down again, she rushed to Jean, and in her childish voice asked:

“Mother, I was so afraid this morning when I saw you talking to that nasty man!”

“Nasty man!” echoed Jean, her heart standing still.

“Yes, mother. I ran across from Miss Oliver and was coming to you, but when I got round the rock I saw—oh, I saw a nasty man raising his hands, and talking. And you were so frightened—and so was I. So I ran back again. He was a nasty, bad man.”

For a second a dead silence fell.

Then Jean, with a supreme effort, collected her thoughts and exercised all her self-control.

“What was that, Jean?” inquired Bracondale quickly.

“Oh, nothing. A man came along begging—rather a well-dressed man he seemed to be. And because I refused to give him anything he commenced to abuse me. But I soon sent him away.”

“The child says you were afraid.”

“Afraid!” she laughed, with a strange, hysterical little laugh. “If I had been I should have called for help. He was only some loafer or other who, finding me alone, thought he could get a franc, I suppose.” And then, after a pause, she added, “I had a similar experience one day last year. The police really ought to keep the sands clear of such persons.”

“What was he like? I’ll tell the chief of police about it.”

“Well, really, I didn’t take very much notice,” she replied. “I was reading, and looking up suddenly found him standing before me. I had no idea that Enid saw him. He asked me for money in a very rough manner. And naturally I declined, and told him that if he did not clear off I would shout for help. So—well, after a few more abusive words, he slunk away.”

“He might have stolen your brooch,” Bracondale remarked.

“He might, certainly,” she said. “Not until after he had gone did I realise how helpless I had been.”

“Yes, mother,” exclaimed the little girl, “but you were frightened, weren’t you? I thought he was going to hit you, for you put up your hands, and he clenched his fists and put his face right into yours. Oh! it did frighten me!”

“Didn’t you tell Miss Oliver?” asked her father.

“No; but I will. I went digging, and forgot all about it.”

“If I were you, Enid, I shouldn’t tell Miss Oliver,” her mother said, very quietly. “You were frightened for nothing. It was only a man who wanted money.”

“But he was such a nasty man—he had a horrid face, and such big, big eyes!” declared the child, and then, turning, she danced away out of the room, leaving Bracondale facing Jean in silence.