"Ah, yes--you are right. I am innocent--but what does Gabrielle care for innocence? We are no longer married--still I should not want to meet her now. I will close. But first--my friend--my benefactor--could I interest you in this rug? See! Only in my native country, where--" "Prince," said Minot, "I couldn't use a rug if you gave me one." "That is exactly what I would do. You are my friend. You serve me. I give you this. Fifty dollars. That is giving it to you. Note the weave. Only in my--" "Good night," interrupted Minot. "And take my advice. Hurry!" Gloomy, discouraged, he turned back toward his own hotel. It was true, Gabrielle Rose's husband at the time of the letters was in San Marco. The emissary of Jephson was serving a cause that could not lose. That afternoon he had hoped. Was there anything dishonorable in that? Jephson and Thacker could command his service, they could not command his heart. He had hoped--and now-- At a corner a negro gave him a handbill. He read: WHO HAS KIDNAPED THE REAL LORD HARROWBY? AT THE OPERA-HOUSE TO-NIGHT!! Mr. Henry Trimmer Will Appear in Place of His Unfortunate Friend, Lord Harrowby, and Will Make a Few WARM AND SIZZLING REMARKS. NO ADVANCE IN PRICES. Mr. Minot tossed the bill into the street. Into his eyes came the ghostlike semblance of a smile. After all, the famous Harrowby wedding had not yet taken place. CHAPTER XII EXIT A LADY, LAUGHINGLY After dinner Minot lighted a cigar and descended into the hotel gardens for a stroll. Farther and farther he strayed down the shadowy gravel paths, until only the faint far suggestion of music at his back recalled the hotel's lights and gaiety. It was a deserted land he penetrated; just one figure did he encounter in a fifteen minutes' walk--a little man clad all in white scurrying like a wraith in the black shade of the royal palms. At a distant corner of the grounds near the tennis-courts was a summer-house in which tea was served of an afternoon. Into this Minot strolled, to finish his cigar and ponder the day's developments in the drama he was playing. As he drew a comfortable chair from moonlight into shadow he heard a little gasp at his elbow, and turning, beheld a beautiful vision. Gabrielle Rose was made for the spotlight, and that being absent, moonlight served as well. Under its soft merciful rays she stood revealed--the beauty thousands of playgoers knew and worshiped. Dick Minot gazed at her in awe. He was surprised that she held out her hand to him, a smile of the utmost friendliness on her face. "How fortunate," she said, as though speaking the cue for a lovely song. "I stand here, the wonder of this old Spanish night getting into my very blood--and the only thing lacking in the picture is--a man. And then, you come." "I'm glad to be of service," said Minot, tossing away his cigar.