“I mean that anything might happen, Rita. After all, we do possess a police service in London, and one day there might be an accident. Kazmah has certain influence, but it may be withdrawn. Rita, won’t you try?” She was watching him closely, and now the pupils of her beautiful eyes became dilated. “You know something,” she said slowly, “which you are keeping from me.” He laughed and turned aside. “I know that I am compelled to leave England again, Rita, for a time; and I should be a happier man if I knew that you were not so utterly dependent upon Kazmah.” “Oh, Lucy, are you going away again?” “I must. But I shall not be absent long, I hope.” Rita sank down upon the settee from which she had risen, and was silent for some time; then: “I _will_ try, Lucy,” she promised. “I will go to Margaret Halley, as she is always asking me to do.” “Good girl,” said Pyne quietly. “It is just a question of making the effort, Rita. You will succeed, with Margaret’s help.” A short time later Sir Lucien left England, but throughout the last week that he remained in London Rita spent a great part of every day in his company. She had latterly begun to experience an odd kind of remorse for her treatment of the inscrutably reserved baronet. His earlier intentions she had not forgotten, but she had long ago forgiven them, and now she often felt sorry for this man whom she had deliberately used as a stepping-stone to fortune. Gray was quite unable to conceal his jealousy. He seemed to think that he had a proprietary right to Mrs. Monte Irvin’s society, and during the week preceding Sir Lucien’s departure Gray came perilously near to making himself ridiculous on more than one occasion. One night, on leaving a theatre, Rita suggested to Pyne that they should proceed to a supper club for an hour. “It will be like old times,” she said. “But your husband is expecting you,” protested Sir Lucien. “Let’s ring him up and ask him to join us. He won’t, but he cannot very well object then.” As a result they presently found themselves descending a broad carpeted stairway. From the rooms below arose the strains of an American melody. Dancing was in progress, or, rather, one of those orgiastic ceremonies which passed for dancing during this pagan period. Just by the foot of the stairs they paused and surveyed the scene. “Why,” said Rita, “there is Quentin—glaring insanely, silly boy.” “Do you see whom he is with?” asked Sir Lucien. “Mollie Gretna.” “But I mean the woman sitting down.” Rita stood on tiptoe, trying to obtain a view, and suddenly: “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Mrs. Sin!”