"Again!" she murmurs; "how can I obey them?--and yet I _must_ go." Then, suddenly, a light of fierce resolve flames in her eyes. "I _will_ go," she says, speaking aloud in her self-forgetfulness; "I will go,--but it shall be _for the last time_!" She thrusts the crumpled bit of paper into her bosom, goes to the window and looks out. Then she crosses to a door opposite the curtained entrance, opens it softly, and glides away. In another moment, Alan Warburton is in the library. Tearing off the black and scarlet domino he flings it into a corner, and, glancing down at his nautical costume mutters: "Sailors of this description are not uncommon. Wherever she goes, I can follow her--in this." Ten minutes later, while Leslie Warburton's guests are dancing and making merry, Leslie Warburton, with sombre garments replacing the robes of Sunlight, glides stealthily out from her stately home, and creeps like a hunted creature through the darkness and away! But not alone. Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows after; a man in the garments of a sailor, who pulls a glazed cap low down across his eyes, and mutters as he goes: "So, Madam Intrigue, Van Vernet advised me well. Glide on, plotter; from this moment until I shall have unmasked you, _I am your shadow_!" CHAPTER XI. "DEAR MRS FOLLINGSBEE." While the previously related scenes of this fateful night are transpiring Richard Stanhope finds his silken-trained disguise a snare in which his own feet become entangled, both literally and figuratively. [Illustration: "Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows after; a man in the garments of a sailor."--page 90.] Moving with slow and stately steps through the vista of splendid rooms, taking note of all that he sees from behind his white and blue mask, he suddenly becomes the object of too much attention. A dashing Troubador presents himself, and will not be denied the pleasure of a waltz with "the stately and graceful Miss Columbia." The detective's feet are encased in satin shoes that, if not small, are at least shapely. He has yet nearly an hour to spare to the masquerade, and his actual business is done. Why not yield to the temptation? He dances with the grace and abandon of the true music worshipper; he loves brightness and gayety, laughter and all sweet sounds; above all, he takes such delight in a jest as only healthy natures can. "It would be a pity to disappoint such a pretty Troubador," muses Richard while he seems to hesitate; "he may never have another opportunity to dance with a lady like me." And then, bowing a stately consent, he moves away on the arm of the Troubador, who, chuckling at his success, mentally resolves to make a good impression on this mysterious uninvited lady.