Irene was playing a waltz now—something as gay and joyous as her song had been sweet and pensive. Guy Kenmore touched Mrs. Leslie's arm.

"Let us go on the balcony. The moonlight is so beautiful," he said.

They went, and though Irene did not turn her head she knew that they had left the room, and her heart sank unaccountably. But she went on playing with tireless fingers, and the gay, sweet music floated deliciously out on the balcony where the young man was saying in a low voice to his companion:

"I must confess to an almost feminine curiosity regarding your promised story of your beautiful protege."

"You wish to hear it now?" said the lady, smilingly.

"Yes," he admitted, frankly.

"After all there is little to tell," she replied. "I know actually nothing of her except that she is a beautiful, fascinating mystery."

"A mystery—how?" he asked.

"I will tell you," she said, "for I do not suppose it is any betrayal of confidence. If I do not tell it you will hear it from others who love her less than I do."

"No one could appreciate your confidence more than I will do," he said, eagerly.

Mrs. Leslie's heart beat quickly. She believed that Mr. Kenmore held the key to the mystery she had promised to unravel for Clarence Stuart. She determined to tell him Irene's story, in the hope of eliciting a like confidence.

"It is nearly four months now since we left Richmond for Italy," she began. "We sailed in Mr. Stuart's own yacht."

"Yes. I saw that fact duly announced in the Richmond papers," he observed.

"But, pardon me for having interrupted your story. Please go on."

"It was the tenth of June when we left Richmond—I like to be particular as to dates," said Mrs. Leslie. "Well, it was lovely weather, and we all planned to get up early the next morning and see the sun rise over the sea. We did so, and as you may be aware, it was a glorious sight; but we only got one glimpse of it, for its first beams showed us a more tragic and interesting sight."

Mr. Kenmore caught his breath, and gazed eagerly at the speaker.

"It was a loud scream for help that first attracted our attention," said Mrs. Leslie. "The sound was not very far away, and we all turned instinctively toward it. To our horror we saw on the level, sun-lighted waves a floating plank, with a human figure clinging to its frail support. Literally, there remained but one plank between her and eternity."

"Ah!" exclaimed Guy Kenmore, with a shudder.

"Mr. Stuart is one of the bravest men in the world, I think. He immediately sprang over the side of the yacht into the sea, and swam toward the floating figure. Before he reached her she lost her hold of the plank, and sank under the water. Mr. Stuart instantly dived, and brought her up in his arms."

"He saved her life. How strange," exclaimed Mr. Kenmore, as if speaking to himself.

"Do you think so?" she asked, looking at him keenly. "Why strange, Mr. Kenmore?"

"I beg your pardon. I did not express myself properly," he said, biting his lips nervously. "Well, Mrs. Leslie, do you mean to tell me that the heroine of that romantic episode was the beautiful Miss Berlin?"

"Yes, it was she," replied Mrs. Leslie.

There was a minute's dead pause. Irene was singing again. In the stillness her full, sweet voice floated out to them softly:

Mrs. Leslie looked at the man's handsome face. It was grave and troubled in the moonlight.

"Is it not strange?" she said. "She would never sing for us until to-night. We did not suspect that she had such a soulful voice. But she was betrothed to Mr. Revington to-day. Perhaps the happiness of her soul finds natural vent in song."

She saw him wince as if she had touched a secret wound. He looked away from her at the lovely Italian landscape bathed in the pearly radiance of the moonlight. When he spoke again he did not look at her.

"Mrs. Leslie. I am curious to hear how your protege came to be in the water?"

"She threw herself in, Mr. Kenmore."

"No," he cried, with a shudder.

"It is true," she replied. "She says she had lost her only friend and did not wish to live."

"Who was that friend?" he asked.

"She declined to say. She declined to speak of her past. She had broken loose from all its ties, and never wished to unite them again. She shrouded herself in mystery, claiming nothing from the life she had left except the sweet, simple name of Irene."

"Yet you called her Berlin," he said.

"Yes, but it was my own maiden name which I gave her because she declared herself nameless," said Mrs. Leslie.

"You were very kind."

"Do you think so? I fell in love with the child, and adopted her as my protege. I am sure she has had a great sorrow in her life, but I am equally sure that she is pure and innocent as a little child."

He looked at her, gratefully.

"And the Stuarts?" he inquired, in a tone of veiled significance.

"Mr. Stuart was as much fascinated by Irene as I was. He wished to adopt her as Lilia's sister, but his jealous wife would not permit him to do so."

"And Revington is her lover?"

"Yes, she accepted him to-day."

"Is it a good match for her?" inquired Mr. Kenmore, dropping into a light, conventional, society tone.

"Not in a worldly way," she replied. "Mr. Revington's fortune is very small, barely sufficient for his own luxurious needs. He is of good family, however, being cousin to Clarence Stuart. I cannot say I have any admiration for the man, and I am disappointed at Irene's choice."

He made no comment on her words, but remained gazing thoughtfully at the beautiful starry arch of night. Mrs. Leslie thought that it was now her turn to receive confidence.

"Now, I have told you all I know of my interesting protege, you must tell me about your friend whom she resembled so much that she frightened you to-night," she said, blandly.

He started and looked at her, but before he could speak they were interrupted.

Mr. Revington and Irene came out upon the balcony and took seats near them. The girl looked at Mr. Kenmore with a bright, careless smile.

"We have been talking about you, Mr. Kenmore," she said. "We are exceedingly anxious to know how you escaped from the wreck in which you were reported as lost."

She spoke and looked as if he were an utter stranger. He answered with indifference equal to her own:

"I am gratified by your solicitude, Miss Berlin. I can very easily gratify your curiosity. I was rescued by one of the small boats that was lowered from the steamer that sunk us."

"Thank you for your concise explanation," she replied, gaily. "I see you are not disposed to weave any romance around it."

"It was too terribly real to be associated with the thought of romance," he replied, repressing a slight shudder.

"And yet our daily life is often more romantic than fiction," observed Mr. Revington, sentimentally.

No one dissented from the proposition. Mr. Kenmore rose and prepared to take leave.

But when he had bowed formally to Irene and her lover, and returned to the drawing-room, the hospitable host and hostess quite took him by storm.

"Return to Florence that night? They would not hear of such a thing! They could not think of losing such a pleasant addition to their party. Mr. Kenmore must promise to be their guest a week at least." The end of it all was that Mr. Kenmore gracefully accepted their cordial invitation, and promised to send to Florence for his luggage on the morrow.

Very soon afterwards the party separated for the night. Mr. Kenmore went to his room, but he was in no mood for retiring. He threw himself down into a chair at the window and lighted a cigar.

"Decidedly I have made a fine beginning," he said to himself. "I have found out more than I expected to do when I came to Mr. Stuart's villa. Perhaps I had been wise to have remained in America. I am come too late."

He was restless and ill at ease. The four walls of his room, spacious and elegant as it was, seemed to confine and stifle him. A fancy seized him to go out into the night air. It would cool his throbbing brow perhaps and he could think more clearly.

A narrow balcony ran across the front of his window, and a flight of steps led from it to the garden below. He stepped safely through his open window and went down the stairs just as all the clocks in the house simultaneously chimed eleven.