“Now,” she said to him, “we are as isolated here as if we were behind closed doors with a substantial guard at every outlet. No one approaches me when I am here, unless I request it, so we can converse for a time undisturbed.” “Isn’t it an unusual honor that you do me, countess?” the detective asked, replying to her. “No; not particularly. I always bring a companion here with me, after the fatigue of receiving for two hours on that raised dais. Now—why are you here?” “Can you ask that, countess?” “I do ask it,” she smiled back at him. “I am here because I had the impulse to come. I have not forgotten our last interview.” “No? I had hoped that you might forget it—at least, a part of it.” “Perhaps it is the part you would have me forget that I best remember,” he replied softly. “I beg, Mr. Carter, that you will not be like all the others, and begin by making love to me offhand, as if I expected it as my due. Be original at least, for I know that you are not in the least in that condition.” “What does not exist, may be made to exist, countess. Love commands most people, but it seems to me that you have transposed the rule, and that you command love.” She shrugged her white shoulders and laughed softly; she also flushed, and turned her matchless eyes full upon him for a moment, remaining silent while she did so. Then she replied with studied deliberation: “No; I do not command love. If I could, I would do so now. Do you regard that as rather a bald statement, my friend? Perhaps it is so; but nevertheless it is true. Have you ever walked past beautiful grounds that surrounded a mansion which attracted you, and have you said to yourself, in passing it, ‘If I could enter and claim it as mine, I would throw open the gate and enter’?” “Perhaps. I have not thought of it in exactly that way.” “No? I will draw the simile a bit farther. You see in that place a haven where you might, if you would, enter and be happy and content forevermore; but you look a second time and discover that the gate is locked against you—so you pass on your way. You remember the garden of flowers, and the mansion only vaguely, yet knowing that you could have been content had you entered there. Do you understand me?” “I am afraid not, countess.” “You do, but you will not admit it. Well, I will be more explicit. The atmosphere around you, Mr. Carter, is the garden of flowers; you are the mansion; but the gate is locked against me, and I may not enter. Sometimes, my friend, we pass such scenes too late in life to know where to search for the key.” She was still looking into his eyes. She had bent nearer to him. There was a deeper flush upon her cheeks and brow, and her eyes were glowing with a light which must, in her early life, have given her the name of Siren. She reached out one hand tentatively, and permitted it to fall upon the back of one of his hands. Her fingers tightened upon it, almost imperceptibly, yet they tightened, and they clung there.