Then she sought Mr. Barringcourt, and found him, not amongst his guests, but in that now deserted drawing-room where once Mariana had played for her. He was looking out on to the gas-lit streets, and the window being open, the cold night air blew into the room. The lights in it were shining fully, yet the city without was plainly visible. “You have left the crowd?” said she. “Yes,” he answered. “They can amuse themselves. You look tired.” She laughed, an apology for deeper feeling, and looked at him with eyes whose tiredness was lost in a certain appeal and pathetic beauty, that characterised them long since in the days of silence. “I think I overrated my powers of—of endurance. I—I should be very pleased to give the last dance to you. I left it empty.” But he shook his head. “I have not danced all evening; I do not wish to make myself conspicuous now.” “We could sit it out.” “We might; but I am contrary.” Then Rosalie went up to him and put her hand very gently in his arm, and almost whispered: “I have a feeling of insecurity that grows with almost every hour. It may be childish, but I never professed to be much different from a child. When I stay with you it leaves me more or less, and always has done from the very first I met you. And now Brightcoat has left me, and I feel quite alone, a thing hardly enviable in any sphere. And I’ve gone through the evening as best I could, and tried to get the better of my weakness.” And then she laughed and drew her hand away, and said: “If such confessions are unusual, you only have this dress to thank for it. The jewels have magnetic power, and draw me to the owner.” At this he turned round from the window and looked at her, and a very curious smile curved on his lips. “That’s your solution, is it?” he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully with one finger. Then he added: “My mother said I was to thank you for the stone you sent her.” “Was she well?” “Yes. At the first stroke after midnight I go again to her. These guests will then have all departed.” “I, too.” “You say that sadly.” “The magnetism of the stone I sent her draws me to your mother.” Just then Everard entered the room, carrying in his hand a large sealed envelope addressed to Rosalie. At the back it was sealed with the image of the Serpent. “You, Everard?” said Mr. Barringcourt, with some surprise. “I heard the door bell ring, and knew it was no ordinary guest of the evening.” She took and opened it. A summons to appear before the High Priest’s court, and on the morrow morning, this first day of the New Year. She read it through, half mystified, the truth with some difficulty dawning upon her. Then on a sudden she handed it to Mr. Barringcourt, her face as white as the background of her dress, and he in his turn read it. Then he turned to Everard and said: “Who brought this?” “A priest who, with his companion, waits outside. I did not let them in.”