She had staked her all, her _petit rouleau_ of a heart on "black," and here _noir perd et passe le coup_, as the gentleman, who presides over a queer looking long table divided into red and black squares as to its surface, at Homburg, says mechanically as he rakes in the little piles of glittering coin and quires of _billets de banque_, while the unlucky gamesters gaze on him ruefully, and bite their nails in disgust. The girl was furious against him. She railed at him, she threatened him, she vowed vengeance, but he did not care a jot. He had not committed himself. He was too wary for that, and what did he care? She bored him, he said, and so he took himself off, and left her to her own machinations. But Clara was not one to be insulted or injured with impunity. She had vowed vengeance, and she intended to have it. She interested herself about Markworth. She wrote to England about him. She found out many little things about him which he never thought any one would recollect, or know here in Paris, at all events. By her indefatigable exertions, she discovered after a year's spying, and seeking, and enquiry, that Markworth was on the eve of marriage with a millionairess--a besotted old widow of a Lyons manufacturer, who adored Englishmen, especially if they were _milords_, and the young lady communicated with the friends of the _devotee_. Through information she gave, the match was broken off, and Markworth learnt who had spoiled his little game. He could not do much, however; he could only expose her at the Pension, and then there was a fine blow up with Madame Bonchose, the _Directrice_. Of course Clara had to leave--such a "little snake in the grass," as Madame called her. But she had had her revenge. Not that she was satisfied yet. That was only the first of a series of attacks she planned. She intended to be Mr Allynne Markworth's evil star through life. It was an unlucky day for him, according to the Fates, when he came across her orbit and discovered Clara Joyce. After leaving the _Pensionat des Filles_ in disgrace, she next became a _Femme de Chambre_ to a Marquise of questionable reputation, with whom she remained some two years, travelling about and increasing her knowledge of the world. But she had not forgotten Markworth, not she, and was ready to lay her hand on him again whenever she had the opportunity. Time passed, and she came back once more to England. Her aunt died, so she assumed her name; and, as Miss Kingscott now, she took a situation once more in an English family at a cathedral town in the south. She knew _he_ was in London now, and she wanted to be near him. She was so fond of him, you see!