He produced his card-case as he spoke, and handed the man a card, on which he had written the following words in pencil: "_Pray see me, dear madame. I come on really important business, which will bear no delay. If you cannot see me till your dinner-hour, I will wait._" The Spaniard ushered Victor into one of the reception-rooms, which looked cold and chill in the winter daylight. Except the grand piano, there was no trace of feminine occupation in the room. It looked like an apartment kept only for the reception of visitors--an apartment which lacked all the warmth and comfort of home. Victor waited for some time, and began to think his message had not been taken to the mistress of the house, when the door was opened, and Miss Brewer appeared. She looked at the visitor with an inquisitive glance as she entered the room, and approached him softly, with her light, greenish-grey eyes fixed upon his face. "Madame Durski has been suffering from nervous headache all day," she said, "and has not yet risen. Her dinner-hour is half-past six. If your business is really of importance, and if you care to wait, she will be happy to see you then." "My business is of real importance; and I shall be very glad to wait," answered Victor. "Since Madame Durski is, unhappily, unable to receive me for some time, I shall gladly avail myself of the opportunity, in order to enjoy a little conversation with you, Miss Brewer," he said, courteously, "always supposing that you are not otherwise engaged." "I have no other engagement whatever," answered the lady, in a cold, measured voice. "I wish to speak to you upon very serious business," continued Victor, "and I believe that I can venture to address you with perfect candour. The business to which I allude concerns the interests of Madame Durski, and I have every reason to suppose that you are thoroughly devoted to her interests." "For whom else should I care?" returned Miss Brewer, with a bitter laugh. "Madame Durski is the only friend I can count in this world. I have known her from her childhood--and if I can believe anything good of my species, which is not very easy for me to do, I can believe that she cares for me--a little--as she might care for some piece of furniture which she had been accustomed to see about her from her infancy, and which she would miss if it were removed." "You wrong your friend," said Victor. "She has every reason to be sincerely attached to you, and I have little doubt that she is so." "What right have you to have little doubt or much doubt about it?" exclaimed Miss Brewer, contemptuously; "and why do you try to palm off upon me the idle nonsense which senseless people consider it incumbent on them to utter? You do not know Paulina Durski--I do. She is a woman who never in her life cared for more than two things." "And these two things are--" "The excitement of the gaming-table, and the love of your worthless friend, Sir Reginald Eversleigh."