‘So much the better for me—so much the worse for him,’ Isodore observed without the slightest tinge of passion in her tones.—‘Read that paragraph in the _Times_, and see if you can make anything of it.’ ‘It is Greek to me,’ Valerie replied, when she had perused the advertisement with a puzzled air.—‘Has it any allusion to my—to Hector?’ ‘To your husband? Yes. He will understand it in a moment, and only be too eager to regain his insignia. There will be a happy union of two loving hearts some night in Charing Cross Station. Little will the spectators know of the passions running riot there.’ She laughed bitterly as she said these words, and threw the paper upon the table again. She was in a strange mood this morning. ‘Then I suppose that C. × means Charing Cross?’ Valerie asked, ‘and you expect Hector to come there?—I do not quite comprehend your plan, Isodore. It will be dangerous to have another in the secret, and I suppose some one will have to meet him.’ ‘Some one will,’ was the calm reply. ‘And who, do you think, is the proper one to do that? Who better than his old friend and once passionate admirer, Isodore?’ ‘_You_ meet him?’ Valerie cried. ‘How daring! Suppose he should recognise you, how then? All your schemes would be thrown to the winds, and we should be defeated. It is madness!’ ‘You forget I have his badge of membership; besides, I have a duty to perform beyond my own feelings in the matter—my duty to the League. But he will not recognise me after the lapse of years, and I must get to the bottom of his traitorous designs.’ ‘You are reckoning upon certainties, Isodore. Suppose you are wrong—suppose he is, after all, no traitor, and that your ideas are only fancies. How then?’ ‘He is a traitor—instinct tells me that. Wait and see what Lucrece has to say, when she comes. She is sure to have gleaned some information by this time.’ Hot revenge is apt to burn itself out quickly, from its very fierceness; but such hate as this never dies. There was a cool deliberation in Isodore’s words which struck her hearer with great force; and much as she herself had suffered, she could not realise a passion such as this. It is probable that had she met her recalcitrant husband, a few words would have obtained for him forgiveness; but she was under the spell now, and her weaker will was swallowed up in a strong one. ‘Do you expect Lucrece this morning?’ Valerie asked. ‘I am expecting her every moment,’ Isodore replied. ‘She promised me to come to-day and let me have her report.’ They sat in silence for a few moments, when Lucrece entered. She was quietly, almost plainly dressed, and wore an air of extreme meekness. ‘You look the character,’ Isodore said approvingly. ‘You might have been a menial all your lifetime.—I am all impatience. Begin!’