“Well, he didn’t see you. As for the photograph, he couldn’t have noticed it enough to know you by. You would have been ruined if you had not gone back and got it, though!” “It was providential.” Mrs. Trelane breathed freer. “It was what?” cried Ismay. She went into a paroxysm of low laughter. “Providence--and you! But I think you’re all right--you forgive my smiling? I think he just stared at you because you and I are probably in his way here; that was all. Only I wouldn’t let him see you in a white evening gown; that might remind him.” “I wish I had never seen Abbotsford.” Mrs. Trelane’s tears had washed channels in her powder. She looked wan and old where she sat. “I bore the brunt--and Marcus has the diamonds.” “And we’re well out of it at that,” Ismay rejoined significantly. “For at last I hope we’re rid of him. He’ll never find us here.” “He’d find us in our graves,” said the woman. “And you’ve got to manage him. Don’t go and get into any mad pursuit of Mr. Cylmer, for if Marcus caught you at it----” She paused, for Ismay was standing over her in a rage. “Marcus!” she said scornfully. “What do I care for your Marcus? I am not bound to him; it is you that need fear him, not I! And as far as you are concerned, what do I owe you? You neglected me, cast me off, and when I came back to you, that madness about Lord Abbotsford came on you. I told you not to go that day--I knew there would be trouble--and now it may be going to ruin my whole life.” “What do you mean? You’re talking nonsense. And, considering you’ve only seen Cylmer through the crack of a door, you’re pretty certain of him,” cried her mother sneeringly. Ismay drew a long breath. “I’ve seen him before--never mind where,” she said. “And he may be Cristiane’s property,” was the angry warning. Ismay flung up her handsome head. “He may belong to all the saints in heaven,” she said, with her voice hard as ice, “but he will come to me in the end.” CHAPTER VIII. THE LUCK OF MARCUS WRAY. Sir Gaspard le Marchant sat before an untasted breakfast in a Paris hotel. He felt curiously ill; far worse than he had ever known himself; he breathed with an effort that made his man servant nervous as he stood behind his chair. Parker alone knew the secret of his master’s state of health, knew that their journey to Rome had been put off first that Sir Gaspard might consult a Parisian specialist, and then because the man who bore his pain so bravely had not the strength to travel. “He looks pleased with Miss Cristiane’s letter; perhaps that’ll do him good!” the man thought distressedly. “I wish he’d turn round and go home.” “Parker,” Sir Gaspard said suddenly, and with almost his old cheerfulness, “I’ve heard from Marchant’s Hold, and Miss Le Marchant is very well.” “Yes, sir? I’m glad, sir.”