'I tell you, Merrill,' he said, 'if you'd been about town as much as I have for the last twenty-four hours, you'd begin to wonder yourself whether something wasn't amiss. These rumours and feelings of depression are one of the strangest features of the war, but there it is at the present moment, in the streets and the clubs and the restaurants--wherever you turn. I've noticed nothing like it since the beginning of the war. The optimists are still cackling away, but it's there all the same--a grim, disheartening fear. One man told me last night that he knew for a fact that Russia was on the point of suing for peace.' Merrill shook his head as he resumed his place at his desk. 'It's just a phase,' he declared. 'Look in and see me again, Ambrose, when you're feeling a little more cheerful.' ... Lavendale made a call in the Strand and passed along that crowded, illuminative thoroughfare towards the Milan. Everywhere the faces of the passers-by seemed indicative of some new apprehension. He bought an early paper, but there was no word in it of any change in the situation. On any printed presentation of the rumours which were on every one's tongue, the censor had set his foot. Lavendale called in at the bar at the Milan for a few minutes. The same feeling was there even more in evidence. 'What's it all mean?' he asked an American pressman whom he knew slightly. The newspaper man nodded sagely. 'Guess the cat's out of the bag now,' he opined. 'Russia has asked for peace and she is going to have it on generous terms. They say that negotiations are going on right here, under the Britisher's very nose. Things'll be pretty lively here soon.' Lavendale took his place in the luncheon-room, a few minutes later. As usual he glanced expectantly towards the corner which Suzanne de Freyne frequently occupied. There were no signs of her to-day, however. He gave his order and leaned back in his place. Then some fancy impelled him to glance towards the glass entrance doors on his left. He sprang at once to his feet. Suzanne, her face whiter than ever, a queer, furtive gleam in her dark eyes, was looking eagerly into the room. She saw him almost at the same moment and hurried in. 'Suzanne!' he exclaimed. 'What luck! You are going to lunch with me, of course?' A _maître d'hôtel_ was holding the vacant chair at his table. With a little sigh she relapsed into it. She was plainly dressed and had the appearance of having newly arrived from a journey. 'I suppose I had better have something to eat,' she sighed. 'Order something--anything,' she added, brushing the carte away. 'It was you I came to see.' He recognized at once the fact that she was in no humour for trivialities. He gave a brief order to the waiters, waved them away and leaned towards her. 'You can command me,' he assured her. 'My time is yours.'