Cristiane gave a little shriek. “It’s--why, Ismay, it’s your mother! And Mr. Wray,” as a man followed Mrs. Trelane leisurely onto the streaming terrace. She rushed to the door to greet the arrivals. Ismay Trelane, white as ashes, was left alone to meet a terror that made her arms fall inert to her sides. What had brought her mother back? And what was hurrying Marcus Wray, that his fortnight of grace had been turned to two days? CHAPTER XXII. “A CHARMING MAN.” Thomas, waiting that evening on the dinner-party, beamed as he directed his subordinates, so joyful was he to see the old light of happiness and gaiety on his young mistress’ face. The strange gentleman from London talked so well, and was so quietly amusing, that the old man had to turn away at times to hide the smile forbidden to a well-bred servant. But he showed his gratification by pressing on Mr. Wray Sir Gaspard’s priceless Burgundy, which by degrees warmed that individual to the heart, so that important things seemed curiously less important, even to him. Ismay surveyed the party from a different point of view. There sat her mother, probably a murderess, certainly a thief; next her, Wray, a receiver of stolen goods, a blackmailer, with an awful crime waiting for committal; at the head of the table, Cristiane, with death at her elbow, and against them all no one but a girl, fearing all things, hoping nothing. It was certainly an unusual party. Mrs. Trelane, powdered, painted, nervously gay, was reckless in her conversation. Ismay, with resigned despair, did not try to warn her even by a glance; Cristiane, perhaps, did not understand her wildest sallies. “If she did, she’d leave the table,” the girl thought scornfully, looking at the other girl’s smiling density. “But I wonder, wonder, wonder, what brought him down!” Mr. Wray caught her glance that was so hard and searching. “Dear Ismay,” he said paternally, “have a little mercy! Don’t sit there, wishing I had stayed at home.” “I didn’t know you had a home!” cuttingly. “Have you?” For some unknown reason the shot told; perhaps Mr. Wray knew more of domesticity than he avowed, for he changed his smile with abruptness. “I hope to have one--some day!” his tone that of a man who takes an undeserved wound bravely; his glance, that only Ismay saw, a cold and savage threat. Cristiane flushed. How could Ismay, whom her father had saved from starvation, dare to taunt a man, who could not be too well off, with his poverty? “Homes are uncertain things!” she observed acidly, and Ismay could have wrung her hands under the table as she saw her mother look with open mockery at Wray. What were they going to do? “There’ll be no chance of my finding out by listening,” she thought forlornly. “They must have done all the talking they needed in the train. Their plans--his plan”--with bitter correction, “must be cut and dried by now, and that idiot of a girl will walk into their trap!