“My husband is coming back to-morrow,” the voice continued. “Oh, Philip, I am afraid!” He put his free hand to his sword. “That is foolish of you,” he said. “I am here.” “But you have begun to cease to care,” her voice wailed, “and you will go away.” As she spoke a door opened to her right, and she released his wrist; he followed her into a little boudoir charmingly hung with straw-coloured silk. The Duke remembered it very well; he turned to the woman. She was now a pale blonde wrapped in an embroidered mob and wearing dazzling little silver slippers. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes pleading. “Paris was terrible after you left,” she said. “Why did you go? You tired so soon.” “You have remarked that,” he returned, “twice, I think, before.” She began to cry. “Do not you love me any more, Philip?” “I have come back to you,” he answered; “but my head is rather confused. And, Madame, you are spoiling your complexion with these tears.” “Hush!” she cried. She ran to the dainty hangings that concealed the door, raised them, and listened. “Some one is coming!” She hastened back to him and half dragged, half pushed him to a secret door; as she touched a spring it flew open, and he stepped with a laugh into the concealment of a dark secret room that was filled with a bitter, pungent perfume. He closed his eyes; there was a heaviness in his head; he could not tell how long he had been closed in when the sliding panel was drawn. “It was a false alarm after all,” said the woman. Her black hair hung dishevelled on her brocade gown, her hollow face was pale and her eyes stormy. “Did you say that you must leave Bois-le-Duc to-morrow?” she demanded hoarsely. She held a candle in a pewter stick in her right hand and her left clasped her dress together over her palpitating bosom. “The Prince gave me leave to return to England,” he answered. He stepped from his concealment into a room with polished walls, furnished heavily and well. “You would not betray him after he has given you a Dukedom–you would not forsake me?” she asked anxiously. “Do you not trust me?” he asked lightly. “Oh yes, I trusted you. But you went away.” “Always the same!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Have I not been faithful to return to you now?” She began to laugh. “Faithful!” she cried. “Faithful!” He laughed too, and the echo was long and loud. He went to the door and opened it on dark stairs; without looking back he descended. The first landing blazed with the light of a thousand candles; a magnificent doorway with portals flung wide invited him into a gorgeous ballroom, where splendidly dressed people moved to and fro to the melody of violin and harp. Philip Wharton entered; in a little alcove to his right he found the woman waiting for him. The diamonds sparkled red and blue as if her flesh was on fire; her powdered locks were piled high, and the billows of her violet dress spread wide on the settee where she sat. She laughed.