She wondered if she would ever dare to tell him the truth; if she ought to tell him. Pyne came to her dressing-room just before the performance began. He had telephoned at an early hour in the morning, and had learned from her maid that Rita had come home safely and was asleep. Rita had expected him; but the influence of Monte Irvin, from whom she had parted at the stage-door, had prevailed until she actually heard Sir Lucien’s voice in the corridor. She had resolutely refrained from looking at the little jewelled casket, engraved “From Lucy to Rita,” which lay in her make-up box upon the table. But the imminence of an ordeal which she dreaded intensely weakened her resolution. She swiftly dipped a little nail-file into the white powder which the box contained, and when Pyne came in she turned to him composedly. “I am so sorry if I gave you a scare last night, Lucy,” she said. “But I woke up feeling sick, and I had to go out into the fresh air.” “I was certainly alarmed,” drawled Pyne, whose swarthy face looked more than usually worn in the hard light created by the competition between the dressing-room lamps and the grey wintry daylight which crept through the windows. “Do you feel quite fit again?” “Quite, thanks.” Rita glanced at a ring which she had not possessed three hours before. “Oh, Lucy—I don’t know how to tell you—” She turned in her chair, looking up wistfully at Pyne, who was standing behind her. His jaw hardened, and his glance sought the white hand upon which the costly gems glittered. He coughed nervously. “Perhaps”—his drawling manner of speech temporarily deserted him; he spoke jerkily—“perhaps—I can guess.” She watched him in a pathetic way, and there was a threat of tears in her beautiful eyes; for whatever his earlier intentions may have been, Sir Lucien had proved a staunch friend and, according to his own peculiar code, an honorable lover. “Is it—Irvin?” he asked jerkily. Rita nodded, and a tear glistened upon her darkened lashes. Sir Lucien cleared his throat again, then coolly extended his hand, once more master of his emotions. “Congratulations, Rita,” he said. “The better man wins. I hope you will be very happy.” He turned and walked quietly out of the dressing-room. CHAPTER XVI. LIMEHOUSE It was on the following Tuesday evening that Mrs. Sin came to the theatre, accompanied by Mollie Gretna. Rita instructed that she should be shown up to the dressing-room. The personality of this singular woman interested her keenly. Mrs. Sin was well known in certain Bohemian quarters, but was always spoken of as one speaks of a pet vice. Not to know Mrs. Sin was to be outside the magic circle which embraced the exclusively smart people who practiced the latest absurdities.