"It is true. I see, cousin, that having put my foot in it thus far I would do well to tell you the whole story." "I should be pleased to act as Father Confessor," was the quick response. They were alone at the table, Miss Becky having gone across the room to chat with a congenial spirit whose acquaintance she had made. So Roderic told his little story as tersely as he could, and in his cousin he found an interested auditor. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked when the finis had been reached. "It is very dreadful." "Surely I came out all right, cousin." "But--suppose you had not--you would have been hypnotized by the adventuress, and that must have been the end of you. Oh! I know the species and all their wiles, having made a study of them." "Does that sweeping deduction include the male bipeds of the adventurer order also?" "Why not?" "Because I might offend if I told you the name of the man who planned my exodus." "Oh! I have already guessed it was the Adonis." "Yes, Jerome Wellington. I am glad you know him in his true light. He has made a vow." "I'll wager it concerns my wretched millions." "Just so--he longs to handle them." "He will be a smarter man than he is now when that happens. But one thing puzzles me?" "Now it is coming," thought Roderic, though aloud he said cheerily, "What might that be?" "You received your warning from a nun." "I was a fool to mention the fact," thought Owen, with one of these wonderful after inspirations that closes the door when the horse is stolen. "Yes, from one who was dressed in the somber garb of a cloister," he replied. "You evidently do not believe she was what she outwardly appeared?" "You are a modern Portia, cousin," he laughed. "Of course, a prisoner at the bar is not pledged to commit himself. If I am over bold forgive me and make no reply. But, you know, a woman's curiosity is proverbial." "I shall answer frankly--she was no member of the Order of the Holy Grail--the garb was assumed to conceal her identity." "From Jerome--from you?" "Both, I presume." "You recognized her face?" "I did not see that--it was her voice. Even then I was in a maze until she had gone." "Was it a _very_ melodious voice, Roderic." "The sweetest--well, yes, a voice full of melody," he replied, with evident confusion that did not escape Cleo's quick gaze. "Ah! you have heard her sing?" "Dozens of times--like a nightingale," he felt forced to confess. "This was--where?" "In San Juan, Porto Rico, two years back. I have not looked on her face since I fled those shores." "Ah!" and that one word expressed keen disappointment, for Cleo read the story of his lost love in his face. CHAPTER IV. MILLIONS MAY NOT PURCHASE LOVE.