Saton left the country on the following afternoon, arrived at St. Pancras soon after five, and drove at once to a large, roomy house on the north side of Regent’s Park. He was admitted by a trim parlormaid—Parkins had been left behind to superintend the removal from Blackbird’s Nest—and he found himself asking his first question with a certain amount of temerity.

“Madame is in?” he inquired.

“Madame is in the drawing-room,” the maid answered.

“Alone?” Saton asked.

“Quite alone, sir.”

Saton ascended the stairs and entered the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, unannounced. At the further end of the apartment a woman was sitting, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed upon the wall. Saton advanced with outstretched hands.

“At last!” he exclaimed.

The woman made no reply. Her silence while he crossed a considerable space of carpet, would have been embarrassing to a less accomplished poseur. She was tall, dressed in a gown of plain black silk, and her brown, withered face seemed one of those which defy alike time and its reckoning. Her white hair was drawn back from her forehead, and tied in a loose knot at the back of her head. Her mouth was cruel. Her eyes were hard and brilliant. There was not an atom of softness, or of human weakness of any sort, to be traced in any one of her features. Around her neck she wore a scarf of brilliant red, the ends of which were fastened with a great topaz.

Saton bent over her affectionately. He kissed her upon the forehead, and remained with his arm resting upon her shoulder. She did not return his embrace in any way.

“So you’ve come back,” she said, speaking with a sharpness which would have been unpleasant but for the slight foreign accent.

“As you see,” he answered. “I left this afternoon, and came straight here.”

“That woman Helga has been down there. What did she want?” she demanded.

Saton shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turning away, fetched a chair, which he brought close to her side.

“I am afraid,” he said bluntly, “that she came to see me.”

The woman’s eyes flashed.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Go on.”

Saton took her hand, and held it between his. It was dry and withered, but the nails were exquisitely manicured, and the fingers were aflame with jewels.

“Dear Rachael,” he said, “you must remember that when I was alone in London waiting to hear from you, I naturally saw a good deal of Helga. She was kind to me, and she was the means by which your letters and messages reached me. I am afraid,” he continued, thoughtfully, “that I was so happy, in those days, to have found anyone who was kind and talked decently to me, that I may have misled her. There has been a little trouble once or twice since. I have tried to be pleasant and friendly with her. She seems—forgive me if it sounds conceited—she seems to want more.”

“Hussy!” the old lady declared. “She shall go.”

“Don’t send her away,” he begged, replacing her hand gently on her lap. “I daresay it was entirely my fault.”

The woman looked at him, and a cruel smile parted her lips.

“I have no doubt it was,” she said. “You are like that, you know, Bertrand. Still, one must have discipline. She asked for a day’s holiday to go into the country to see her relatives, and I find her going to see you behind my back. It cannot be permitted.”

“It will not happen again,” he assured her. “I feel myself so much to blame.”

“I have no doubt,” she said, “that you are entirely to blame, but that is not the question. Unfortunately, there are other things to be considered, or she would have been sent packing before now. Tell me, Bertrand, what kept you down in the country these last few days?”

“I wanted a rest,” he answered. “I have to read my paper to-night, you know, and I was tired.”

“You have been spending your time alone?”

“No!” he answered, with scarcely a second’s hesitation. “I have been once or twice to Beauleys.”

“To see your friend Henry Rochester, I suppose?” she asked.

Saton’s face darkened.

“No!” he answered. “I would not move a step to see him. I hate him, and I think he knows it.”

“Who were the ladies of the party?” the woman asked. “Their names one by one, mind. Begin with the eldest.”

“Lady Penarvon.”

“I know. Go on,” she said.

“Mrs. Hinckley.”

“Go on.”

“Miss Lois Champneyes.”

“Young?” the woman asked.

“Yes!”

“Pretty?”

“Yes!”

“A victim?”

Saton frowned.

“There was also,” he continued, “my hostess, Lady Mary Rochester.”

“A silly, fluffy little woman,” Madame declared. “Did she flirt?”

“Not with me, at any rate,” Saton answered.

“Too experienced,” Madame remarked. “Perhaps too good a judge of your sex. Who else?”

“Lady Marrabel.”

“A very beautiful woman, I have heard,” Madame remarked. “Also young, I believe. Also, I presume, a victim.”

“It is not kind of you,” Saton protested. “These women were staying in the house. One has to make oneself agreeable to them.”

“Someone else was staying in the house,” Madame continued, fixing her brilliant eyes upon his face. “Someone else, I see, died there.”

“You mean Lord Guerdon?” Saton muttered, softly.

“He died there,” she said, nodding. “Bertrand, did he—did he recognise you?”

“He would have done,” Saton said slowly, “if he had not died. He was just beginning to remember.”

She looked at him curiously for several minutes.

“Well,” she said, “I ask no questions. Perhaps it is wiser not. But remember this, Bertrand, I know something of the world, and the men and women who live in it. You are a born deceiver of women. It is the rÔle which nature meant you to play. You can turn them, if you will, inside out. Perhaps you think you do the same with me. Let that go. And remember this. Have as little to do with men as possible. Your very strength with women would be your very weakness with men. Remember, I have warned you.”

“You don’t flatter me,” he said, a little unpleasantly.

“Bah!” she answered. “Why should you and I play with words? We know one another for what we are. Give me your hands.”

He held them out. She took them suddenly in hers and drew him towards her.

“Kiss me!” she commanded.

He obeyed at once. Then she thrust him away.

“I go with you to this conversazione to-night,” she said. “It is well that we should sometimes be seen together. I shall let it be known that you are my adopted son.”

“That is as you will,” he said, with secret satisfaction.

“Why not?” she declared. “I never had a son, but I’m foolish enough to care for you quite as much as I could for any child of my own. Go and get ready. We dine at seven.—No! come back.”

She placed her long, clawlike fingers upon his shoulders, and kissed him on both cheeks. She held him tightly by the arms, as though there was something else she would have said—her lips a little parted, her eyes brilliant.

“Go and get ready,” she said abruptly. “Look your prettiest. You have a chance to make friends to-night.”