Marise slept little, in what was left of that strange wedding night.

She tried to think of Tony Severance, who must be suffering tortures through his love and fears for her. But somehow he had lost importance. He had become a figure in the background. Her thoughts would turn their "spot light" upon the man in the adjoining room.

Was he asleep? Was he awake? Was he thinking about her, and if so, what? Why had he married her? If it was for love, as she had fancied at first, could he have treated her as he had? That was hard to believe! Yet it was harder to believe his motives wholly mercenary.

"Perhaps that's because I'm vain," the girl told herself. And she remembered, her cheeks hot, how Garth had accused her of vanity and selfishness. He'd said that she took no interest in anything which didn't concern Marise Sorel. She had been angry then, and thought him unjust and hard. But in her heart she knew that he had touched the truth. She was vain and selfish. And she was hard, too, just as hard to him as he to her.

"He has made me so!" she excused herself. "I was never hard to anyone else before, in all my life."

But she could not rest on this special pleading. What right had she to be hard to this man? She had asked him to marry her. His crime was that he had granted her wish and consented to play this dummy hand; and now the deed was done he was not grovelling to her or to Tony Severance. How much more British he seemed, by the by, than dark, Greek Tony, of subtle ways!

At luncheon, talking with Pobbles, he had spoken of Yorkshire as his county. Marise wondered what he had meant. But, of course, she would not ask. John Garth's past was no affair of hers. Still, she couldn't stop puzzling about him. She puzzled nearly all night. He was turning out such a different man from the man she had vaguely imagined! In fact, he was different from any man she had ever met, off the stage or on.

Staring into darkness as the hours passed, Marise felt that she could not wait for CÉline. She'd get up at dawn, dress, and flit to her own room in Mums' suite. But no! She couldn't do that. She hadn't a key to that suite. She would have to pound on the door, and other people beside Mums and CÉline would hear. There would be gossip—which she'd sacrificed much already to avoid.

Dreading the long night of wakefulness, the girl suddenly dropped fast asleep, and began at once to dream of Garth. ZÉlie Marks was in the dream, too, and—dreams are so ridiculous!—Marise was jealous. What had happened between the two she didn't know; but she would have known in another instant, for ZÉlie was going to confess, if a rap had not sounded at the door and made her sit up in a fright. Marise was just about to cry, "You can't come in!" when she realised that it was the peculiar double knock of CÉline.

The Frenchwoman was prompt, though the night had seemed so long. Her mistress sipped hot, fragrant Orange Pekoe from an eggshell cup, and in a whisper bade CÉline move quietly, not to rouse Monsieur Garth in the next room.

"Oh, Mademoiselle—Madame!" said the maid.

"Monsieur has gone out, early as it is. His door is wide open."

Marise must have slept more soundly than she knew. She hadn't heard a sound.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask CÉline about the jewel-cases—if they were lying in the corridor. But she couldn't put such a question! The maid would be too curious—she would fancy there had been some vulgar quarrel instead of—instead of—well, Marise hardly knew how to qualify her own conduct.

"I'm afraid I was vulgar," she thought, like a child repenting last night's misdeeds. "It was horrid of me to throw those lovely things on the floor. Poor fellow, he must have spent a fortune—somebody's fortune (whose, I wonder?)—on those pearls, and diamonds and emeralds, and all the rest. Yet I never said one word of gratitude. I was never such a brute before!... I'm sure it must be his fault. Still—I don't like myself one bit better than I like him."

As Garth had gone out, there was no great need for haste. CÉline had brought all that was needed, and Marise might dress—as well as repent—at leisure. But she was wild with impatience to know whether the jewels were lying where she had thrown them. While CÉline was letting the bath-water run, the girl peeped out into the flower-scented corridor. The jewel-cases had gone!

This discovery gave her a slight shock. She had more than half expected to see them on the floor, and had wondered what she would do if they were there—whether she would pick them up and decide to accept the gifts after all, with a stiff, yet decent little speech of gratitude. "I'm sure you meant to do what I would like, and I don't wish to hurt your feelings," or something of that sort.

Now, what should she do? The probability was that Garth himself had retrieved his rejected treasures. But there was just a chance—such horrors happened in hotels!—that a thief had pussy-footed into the suite to search for wedding presents, and had found them easily in an unexpected place. That would be too dreadful! Because, if she—Marise—held her tongue, Garth would always believe that she had annexed the things, and had chosen to be sulkily silent.

"I shall have to bring up the subject somehow, the next time we meet—whenever that may be!" she thought ruefully.

When Mrs. Garth arrived in the maternal suite, it was about the hour when Miss Sorel had been in the habit of slipping, half-dressed, from bedroom to salon. It was the time, also, when Miss ZÉlie Marks was accustomed to present herself, and begin her morning tasks: sharpening pencils, sorting letters, etc. But to-day the salon was unoccupied. The letters lay in a fat, indiscriminate heap, just as CÉline had received them from one of the floor-waiters.

Mrs. Sorel was still in bed, and still suffering from last night's headache, which had increased, rather than diminished. She burst into tears at sight of Marise, but was slowly pacified on hearing the story of the night.

"He was afraid to——" she began; but the girl broke in with the queerest sensation of anger. "He wasn't afraid—of anything! Whatever else he may have been, he wasn't afraid. I don't believe the creature knows how to be afraid."

Mrs. Sorel did not insist. She didn't wish to waste time discussing Garth. She wanted to talk of Tony. There was a letter from him. It had come by hand, early—sent as he was starting. Of course he hadn't dared write to Marise direct, but there was an enclosure for her.

"You had better read it now," advised Mums. "At any moment that man may turn up, asking for you, and trying to make some scene."

Marise took the crested envelope that had come inside her mother's note from Tony; but somehow or other she felt an odd repulsion against it. She didn't care to read what Tony had to say to Mrs. John Garth at parting; and she had an excuse to procrastinate because, just then, the telephone sounded in the salon adjoining.

"Will you go, dearest? Or shall I ring for CÉline?" Mums asked.

Marise answered by walking into the salon and picking up the receiver. Her heart was beating a little with the expectation of Garth's voice from—somewhere. Their own suite, perhaps? But a woman was speaking.

"Is it you, Mrs. Sorel?" was the question that came. And the heart-beats were not calmed, for Marise recognised the contralto tones of Miss Marks, the villainess of her dream.

"No, it's I, Miss Sorel," she answered. "What's the matter? Aren't you coming as usual?"

"I am sorry, no, I can't come," replied the voice across the wire. "I thought that now—you're married, Mrs. Garth, and going away before long, I should no longer be required. But in any case I——"

"If we hadn't required your services we should have told you, and given you two weeks' salary in lieu of notice," snapped Marise professionally.

"I hardly supposed you had time to think about me, everything was so confused yesterday," ZÉlie excused herself. "Anyhow, Mrs. Garth, I must give notice myself, for I've had news which will take me out of New York at once. I've got to start by the next train. It doesn't matter about money. I was paid up only a few days ago. We were just starting fresh——"

"I'm sure my mother will wish to pay, and insist upon doing so," said Marise. "When does your train go?"

"I'm not certain to the minute," hedged Miss Marks. "But I have to pack. I——"

"That won't prevent your receiving an envelope with what we owe you in it," persisted Marise. "I suppose you're 'phoning from your flat?"

"Yes—no. Yes. But I'll be gone before a messenger could get here. Please don't trouble."

"Very well, give me your address at the town where you're going," Marise said. "We can post you on a cheque."

"I can't do that, I'm afraid," objected Miss Marks. "I shall be moving about from place to place for awhile. It's really no use, Mrs. Garth, thank you—though of course it's kind of you to care. Please say good-bye to Mrs. Sorel for me. You've both been very good."

"I wish you'd sent us word last night," said Marise, whose eyes were bright, and whose hand, holding the receiver, had begun to throb as if she had a heart in her wrist.

"I didn't know last night. The news I spoke of came this morning."

"It must have come early!"

"It did. Good-bye, Mrs. Garth."

"Wait just a second. Are you going—West?"

"Ye-es. For awhile."

"You can't tell me where?"

"Oh, several places. Not far from my old home."

"Did you ever mention where that was?"

But no answer came. Either they had been cut off, or ZÉlie Marks had impudently left the telephone.

The dream came back to Marise—the dream where Garth and the stenographer had been whispering together in a room where Marise could not see them.

"I believe he's with her now," the girl thought. "I believe when he went out this morning he went straight to her. He's told her to do something, and she intends to do it."

To that question, "Are you going West?" ZÉlie had hesitatingly responded, "Ye-es." What did it mean?