Then there came a knock at the door. As with the touch of her fingers upon the switch the gloom of the room was changed into brilliant light, so Félanie almost miraculously recovered herself. She swung round in her dainty revolving chair. Her lips, even, fell naturally and easily into the lines of her most seductive smile. What fear there was at the woman's heart showed itself no longer in her face. 'Monsieur Lavendale--Monsieur Ambrose Lavendale, is it not?' she added, with a momentary glance at the card. 'You wish to see me? Lavendale came a little further into the room and bowed. At a glance from her mistress, the maid softly withdrew, closing the door. In his severely simple evening clothes, Lavendale seemed in that little room to be taller even than his six feet two. Félanie, who had risen to her feet, felt herself suddenly dominated. 'Madame,' Lavendale said, 'I have ventured to present myself in order to renew a very delightful acquaintance.' She played the game bravely. 'But, monsieur,' she protested, 'I have not the pleasure of knowing you.' He sighed. 'It is, alas! then, your memory, madame, which is at fault.' 'Or yours?' she queried softly. He shook his head. 'Those who have had the privilege of knowing the lady who calls herself now Madame Félanie, could make no mistake.' 'Yet it seems,' she persisted, acknowledging his courtesy with a smile, 'that that is what has happened. You are gallant, monsieur, but there are so many of us upon the stage who resemble one another.' He shook his head with a self-confidence which she hated. 'There is no man in this world,' he declared, 'who could fail to recognize Adèle Goetz, even under the guise of Madame Félanie. May I congratulate you upon your great success? Your revue, they tell me, will run for ever.' 'You are very kind,' she said, her knees beginning to tremble a little, 'but indeed you are mistaken. My name is Elaine Félanie. It is my own name. I came from the Odéon. I am so well-known in Paris. This lady of whom you speak perhaps resembled me.' Lavendale did not for a moment reply. His face had become a shade graver, his grey eyes held hers. 'Is there, then, a reason, madame,' he asked, 'why Adèle Goetz preferred to disappear and Madame Félanie to rise from her ashes? Am I not one of those who could be trusted? My memories of Mademoiselle Adèle are too delightful for me to bear anything but good-will towards Madame Félanie.' She stood for a moment quite still. Her brain was working quickly. After all, the man was an American. She looked at him a little doubtfully. He smiled--and she yielded. She gave him both her hands. 'Monsieur Ambrose,' she said, 'it can go on no longer. I thought myself an actress but you have conquered. You are my friend?' 'Your devoted friend,' he assured her. 'You can imagine, then, why here in England it is Elaine Félanie alone who exists?' 'Adèle Goetz, if I remember rightly,' he replied, 'was of German birth.'