Her eyes challenged his, her lips were parted in a slight smile. Underneath the levity of her remark, he was fully conscious of the undernote of serious meaning. "I am not afraid of Mr. Wrayson," the Baroness answered, smiling. "My age and my dressmaker are the only two things I keep entirely to myself, and I don't think he is likely to guess either." "And you?" he asked, looking into her companion's eyes. "There are many things," she answered, in a low tone, "which one keeps to oneself, because confidences with regard to them are impossible. And yet--" She paused. Her eyes seemed to be following out the mystic design painted upon her fan. "And yet?" he reminded her under his breath. "Yet," she continued, glancing towards the Baroness, and lowering her voice as though anxious not to be overheard, "there is something poisonous, I think, about secrets. To have them known without disclosing them would be very often--a great relief." He leaned a little towards her. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, "if I can find out?" The colour left her face with amazing suddenness. She drew away from him quickly. Her whisper was almost a moan. "No! for God's sake, no!" she murmured. "I meant nothing. You must not think that I was speaking about myself." "I hoped that you were," he answered simply. The Baroness turned in her chair as though anxious to join in the conversation. At that moment came a knock at the door of the box. Wrayson rose and opened it. Heneage stood there and entered at once, as though his coming were the most natural thing in the world. "Thought I recognized you," he remarked, shaking hands with Wrayson. "I believe, too, I may be mistaken, but I fancy that I have had the pleasure of meeting the Baroness de Sturm." The Baroness turned towards him with a smile. Nevertheless, Wrayson noticed what seemed to him a strange thing. The slim-fingered, bejewelled hand which rested upon the ledge of the box was trembling. The Baroness was disturbed. "At Brussels, I believe," she remarked, inclining her head graciously. "At Brussels, certainly," he answered, bowing low. She turned to Louise. "Louise," she said, "you must let me present Mr. Heneage--Miss Deveney. Mr. Heneage has a cousin, I believe, of the same name, in the Belgian Legation. I remember seeing you dance with him at the Palace." The two exchanged greetings. Heneage accepted a chair and spoke of the performance. The conversation became general and of stereotyped form. Yet Wrayson was uneasily conscious of something underneath it all which he could not fathom. The atmosphere of the box was charged with some electrical disturbance. Heneage alone seemed thoroughly at his ease. He kept his seat until the close of the performance, and even then seemed in no hurry to depart. Wrayson, however, took his cue from the Baroness, who was obviously anxious for him to go. "Goodnight, Heneage!" he said. "I may see you at the club later."