“Leave me to judge of conventions which appeal so powerfully to you, a writer, a Bohemian, a man who stood on a Liverpool quay while Paul Constantine was drowning!” she cried, and each word formed a crescendo of scornful negation of my right to dictate to her. Nor did she pay heed to the positive start of alarm with which I marked her utterance of the Armenian’s name. Her mood changed in an instant. She caught my arm again in pitiful entreaty. “Forgive me if I say that which may sound outrageous in your ears,” she said. “I am so unstrung, so much in need of one who will sympathize rather than chide, believe rather than question.” “I take you at your word, Miss Cazenove. Now, let me recant my momentary lapse into smug propriety. I admit my belief. I am convinced that Karl possesses some dreadful force which is quite demoralizing when it meets resistance. It is not his fault, nor Miss Hutchinson’s, nor yours, nor was its influence wholly condemnable in the man whose name you have just mentioned. It is something outside and beyond our ordered senses. Very well, we can only deal with it by the use of those same senses. The first requisite is candor, the second, critical analysis. But, however distraught you may be, you must admit that midnight, in your boudoir, in a house overrun with your guests, gives us no opportunity of sanely examining a disturbing problem. Come now, be guided by me; I have a son nearly your age, and you may trust me to take a calm view of these things which excite you so terribly.” “And you will not deem me mad when I tell you that when Karl marries me it will kill me if I still feel that his soul belongs to another woman?” “Indeed I shall not hold any such vain thought. Don’t you see that marriage, under such conditions, is not to be thought of? But there! Let us not commence our inquiry now. I am even resisting the temptation to ask you how you knew of Constantine’s death. No! please begin by being patient. I shall perhaps ask for a little obedience, standing, as I do, _in loco parentis_. Let us arrange a meeting to-morrow. What do you say to a stroll in the Park after luncheon? Or, if the weather is wet, shall I call here if you can count on being alone?” Tacitly, we ignored both Lord Sandilands and Mrs. Grundy. They were estimable persons, doubtless, but they would need electrocution ere they understood telegnomy. She was about to answer when a light knock on the half-open door announced a visitor. It was Karl. He smiled wistfully. He had the semblance of one who knows that a catastrophe has occurred, a catastrophe foreseen yet unpreventable. “I expected to find you here, Nora,” he said. “In fact, I followed you here in my mind, and I agree that it will be better for you, and possibly for others, if certain explanations are given. Let you two meet to-morrow, by all means. Then, you must send for me and tell me what has to be done.”