CHAPTER VIII. The first act in the drama was about to be played—the puppets all arranged, all acting for themselves, never heeding the hand of fate in it. Hector le Gautier triumphant, but troubled occasionally by the loss of his device, yet trusting to his own good fortune and matchless audacity to pull him through. The curious in such matters, the idle folks who dream and speculate, had food for reflection in their _Times_ next morning, for on the front sheet on the second column appeared an announcement. It was vague; but one man understood it. It ran: MOIDORE.—How reckless of you to throw away a life on the hazard of a die. They are all safe but yours. Where is that? In two months you will have to deliver, and then beware of the wrath of the Crimson Nine. It is not too late yet. Under the clock at C. × at nine—any night. Use the sign, and good will come of it.—EASTERN EAGLE. The _Times_ containing this announcement lay upon Isodore’s breakfast-table in Ventnor Street, Fitzroy Square. As it rested upon the table, the words were readable, and Isodore smiled when they caught her eye as she entered. She took up an album from a side-table and turned over the leaves till she came to the portrait of a pretty dark girl of about seventeen. At this she looked long and intently, and then turned to scrutinise her features in the glass. There was nothing coquettish about this—no suspicion of womanly vanity, but rather the air of one who strives to find some likeness. Apparently the examination pleased her, for she smiled again—not a pleasant smile, this time, but one of certainty, almost cruelty; and a vengeful look made the eyes hard for a moment. She turned to the photograph again, and then once more back to the mirror, as if to be absolutely certain of her convictions, that there might be no mistake. While absorbed thus, Valerie le Gautier entered the room and looked at Isodore in astonishment. ‘You have a grand excuse,’ she said archly, ‘though I did not know that vanity was one of your failings, Isodore.’ Isodore blushed never so faintly, not so much by being taken in the little act, as by the appearance of the thing. ‘It is not on any account of mine,’ she said; ‘rather, on yours.—Valerie, look here carefully and tell me if you know that face.’ She indicated the portrait in the album; and her friend looked at it earnestly. After a few moments she looked up, shaking her head doubtfully. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It is a strange face entirely to me.’ ‘Then I have altered since that was taken five years ago.’ ‘Is it possible that innocent, childish-looking face could have once been you?’ Valerie asked in unfeigned astonishment. ‘Indeed, it is. There is nothing like sorrow and hardship to alter the expression of features, especially of women. Yes, Valerie, that is what I was when I met him. You would not have known me?’ ‘No, indeed. They might be two different faces.’