"First," interrupts a mellow voice from behind the starry mask, "are _you_ Mrs. Warburton?" "Yes." "Then I am Richard Stanhope." CHAPTER VIII. VERNET "CALLS A TURN." Leslie Warburton had replaced her mask, but the face she concealed was engraven upon the memory of her _vis-a-vis_. A pure pale face, with a firm chin; a rare red mouth, proud yet sensitive; a pair of brown tender eyes, with a touch of sadness in their depths; and a broad low brow, over which clustered thick waves of sunny auburn. She is slender and graceful, carrying her head proudly, and with inherent self-poise in gait and manner. She glances about her once more, and then says, drawing still nearer the disguised detective: "I have been looking for you, Mr. Stanhope, and we have met at a fortunate moment. Nearly all the guests have arrived, and everybody is dancing; we may hope for a few undisturbed moments now. You--you have no reason for thinking yourself watched, or your identity suspected, I hope?" "None whatever, madam. Have _you_ any fears of that sort?" "No; none that are well grounded; I dislike secrecy, and the necessity for it; I suppose I am nervous. Mr. Stanhope," with sudden appeal in her voice, "how much do you know concerning me, and my present business with you?" "Very little. During my drive hither with Mr. Follingsbee, he told me something like this: He esteemed you very highly; he had known you for years; you desired the services of a detective; he had named me as available, and been authorized by you to secure my services. He said that he knew very little concerning the nature of your business with me, but believed that all that you did would be done wisely, discreetly, and from the best of motives. He pointed you out to me when we entered the house. That is all, madam." "Thank you. Mr. Follingsbee is, or was, the tried friend, as well as legal adviser, of my adopted father, Thomas Uliman, and I know him to be trustworthy. When he spoke of you, Mr. Stanhope, he knew that I desired, not only a skillful detective, but a true-hearted man; one who would hold a promise sacred, who would go no further than is required in the matter in hand, and who would respect an unhappy woman's secret--should it become known to him." Her voice died in her throat, and Stanhope rustled his garments uneasily. Then she rallied and went on bravely: "Mr. Follingsbee assured me that you were all I could desire." "Mr. Follingsbee does me an honor which I appreciate." "And so, Mr. Stanhope, I am about to trust you. Let us sit here, where we shall be unobserved, and tolerably secure from interruption." She turns toward the divan behind the screen and seats herself thereon, brushing aside her glittering drapery to afford the disguised detective a place beside her. He hesitates a moment, then takes the proffered seat and says, almost brusquely: