It was not until after my guests had departed, and I had almost given up hope, that I caught sight of her. She was seated at a table in the writing-room, and was in the act of sealing a letter. She looked up as I entered, and, after a second's hesitation, bowed coldly. I summoned up all my pluck, however, and approached her.

"Good evening, Miss Van Hoyt!" I said.

"Good evening, Mr. Courage!" she answered, proceeding to stamp her envelope.

"Have you been to the theatre?" I asked.

"Not this evening," she replied; "I have been to a meeting."

"A meeting!" I repeated; "that sounds interesting!"

"I doubt whether you would have found it so," she answered dryly.

Her manner, without being absolutely repellent, was far from encouraging. I found myself in the embarrassing position of having nothing left to say. I gave up all attempt at conversational philandering.

"May I talk to you for a few minutes, Miss Van Hoyt?" I asked.

She raised her head and looked at me meditatively. Her eyes were the color of early violets, but they were also very serious and very steady. She appeared to be deliberately taking stock of me, but I could not flatter myself that there was anything of personal interest in her regard.

"Yes!" she answered at last, "for a few minutes. Not here though. Go through the drawing-room on to the terrace, and wait for me there. Don't go at once. Go downstairs and have a drink or something first."

I could see her looking through the glass doors, and divining her wishes, I turned away at once. Mr. Blumentein was standing there, looking upon us. His smile was almost ghastly in its attempted cordiality. He took off his hat as I passed, and we exchanged some commonplace remark. I went downstairs and strolled up and down. The minutes passed ridiculously slowly. I looked at my watch a dozen times. At last I decided that I had waited long enough. I ascended the stairs, and made my way through the drawing-room on to the terrace. The place was deserted, but I had scarcely walked to the farther end, before I heard the soft trailing of a woman's skirt close at hand. I looked up eagerly, and she stepped out from the drawing-room. For a moment she hesitated. I remained motionless. I could do nothing but look at her. She wore a black evening dress—net I think it was, with deep flounces of lace. Her neck and arms were dazzlingly white in the half light; her lips were a little parted as she stood and listened. Her whole expression was natural, almost childlike. Suddenly she dropped the curtain and came swiftly towards me.

"Well," she said softly, "now that I am here, what have you to say to me?"

I was horribly tempted to say things which must have sounded unutterably foolish. With an effort I restrained myself. I addressed her almost coldly.

"Miss Van Hoyt," I said, "I want to know whether you are the only woman in this hotel who uses—that perfume."

She took out her handkerchief. A little whiff of faint fragrance came floating out from its crumpled lace.

"You recognize it?"

"Yes!"

"So much the better!" she declared. "Let me tell you this at once. I have not come here to answer questions. I have come to ask them. Are you content?"

"I am content—so long as you are here," I murmured.

"The man whom you protected last night—whose life you probably saved—on your honor, was he a stranger to you?"

"On my honor he was," I answered gravely.

"You have never seen him before?"

"To my knowledge—no!"

"You have never spoken to him before?"

"Never!"

She drew a little sigh.

"Your defence of him then," she said, "was simply accidental?"

"Entirely!" I answered.

"Has he communicated with you since?"

"Not in any way," I assured her.

She drew a little away from me. Her eyes were still fixed eagerly upon my face.

"Are you inclined to believe in me—to believe what I say?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I answered.

"Then listen to me now," she said. "That man, never mind his name, is one of nature's criminals. He is a traitor, a renegade, a malefactor. He has sinned against every law, he has written his own death-warrant. He deserves to die, he will die! That is a certain thing. He would have been dead before now, but for me! Do you know why I have made them spare his life?"

"No!" I answered. "Who are they? and who is to be his executioner? Surely, if he is all that you say there are laws under whose ban he must have come. It is not safe to talk like this of life and death here. All those things are arranged nowadays in the courts."

She smiled at me scornfully.

"Never mind that," she said. "You speak now of things which you do not understand. I want to tell you why I would not let them kill him."

"Well?"

"It is because if he is killed the secret goes with him. Never mind how he came by it, or who he is. It is sufficient for you to know that he has it. Up to now, he has resisted even torture. You remember the color of his hair? It went like that in a night, but he held out. Now he knows that he is going to die, and he is seeking for some one to whom he may pass it on."

"What is this secret then?" I asked, perplexed.

"Don't be absurd," she answered. "If I knew it, should I be likely to tell it to you? I have an idea of the nature of it, of course. But that is not enough."

"But—who is he then?" I asked. "How came he to obtain possession of it?"

"Now you are asking questions," she reminded me. "Believe me, you are safer, very much safer knowing nothing. If I were your friend—"

She hesitated. All the time her eyes were fixed upon me. She seemed to be trying to read the thoughts which were passing through my brain.

"If you were my friend," I repeated—"well?"

"I would give you some excellent advice," she said slowly.

"I am ready to take it!" I declared.

"On trust?"

"I believe so," I answered. "At least, you might give me the chance." She sank down upon the settee at the extreme end of the terrace. There was little chance here of being overheard, as we had a clear view of the only approach.

"After all," she said, "I do not think that it would be worth while. You belong to a class which I do not understand—which I do not pretend to understand. The things which seemed reasonable to me would probably seem banal to you. I am sure that it would be useless!"

"But why?" I persisted. "You have said so much, you must say more. I insist!"

A little wearily she pushed back the masses of hair from her forehead. Her head rested for a moment upon her fingers. Her eyes deliberately sought mine.

"Let me warn you," she said; "I am not the sort of woman whom you know anything about. The usual things do not attract me; I have never been in love with a man. I hope that I never shall be. And yet I think that I find my way a little further into life than most of my sex."

"You have other interests," I murmured.

"I have! What they are it is not for you to know. I am only interested in your sex so far as they are useful to me. You, if you were a different sort of man, might be very useful to me."

"At least give me the chance," I begged.

She shook her head.

"This morning," she said, "it seemed to me that I saw in one moment an epitome of your life. I saw every nerve of your body strained, I saw you wound up to a great effort. It was to catch a ball! You succeeded, I believe."

I laughed a little awkwardly.

"Yes! I caught it!" I remarked. "Success is something after all, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," she admitted. "Afterwards I spoke to your cousin about you. He told me that you lived on your estates, that you played games well, that you shot birds and rabbits, and sent to prison drunken men and poachers. 'But about his life?' I asked. 'This is his life,' your cousin answered. 'He has never gone in for a career!'"

"I suppose," I said slowly, "that this seems to you a very unambitious sort of existence!"

"Existence!" she answered scornfully, "it does not seem like existence at all! Your joys are the joys of a highly trained animal; your sorrows and your passions and your disappointments—they are at best those of the yokel. What has life to do with games and sports? These things may have their place and their use, but to make them all in all! The men whom I have met are not like that!"

"I am sorry," I said. "You see the other things have not come my way!"

"You mean that you have not been out to seek them," she declared. "The pulse of the world beats only for those who care to feel it."

"Let us take it for granted, for a moment, that you are right," I said, "and that I am a convert. I am willing to abjure my sports and my quiet days for a plunge into the greater world. Who will be my guide? Which path shall I follow?"

"You are not in earnest," she murmured.

"Perhaps I am, perhaps not," I answered. "At any rate, there have been times when I have found life a tame thing. Such a feeling came to me two years ago, and I went to Africa to shoot lions."

She leaned towards me.

"You should hunt men, not lions," she whispered. "It is only the animal courage in you which keeps you cool when you face wild beasts. It is a different thing when you measure wits and strength with one of your own race!"

"Count me a willing listener and go on," I said. "If you can show me the way, I am willing to take it."

"Why not?" she said, half to herself. "You have strength, you have courage! Why shouldn't you come a little way into life?"

"If it is by your side," I began passionately.

She stopped me with a look.

"Please go away," she said firmly. "You only weary me! If it is to gain an opportunity of saying this sort of rubbish that you have induced me to take you seriously, I can only say that I am sorry I have wasted a second of my time upon you!"

"The two things are apart," I answered. "I will not allude to the one again. My interest in what you have said is genuine. I am waiting for your advice."

She rose slowly to her feet. She looked me in the eyes, but there was no shadow of kindness in their expression.

"If I were a man," she said—"if I were you, I would seek out the person whom you befriended—he goes by the name of Guest—and I would learn from him—the secret!"

"Where can I find him?" I asked eagerly. "He seems to have disappeared entirely."

Her voice sank to a whisper. Her breath fanned my cheek, so that I felt half mad with the desire to hold her in my arms, if only for a moment. I think that she must have seen the light flash in my eyes, but she ignored it altogether.

"Go to your room," she said, "and wait till a messenger comes to you."