"Everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added, "Besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. Novel writers are compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of things--as you will do, I suppose with your stories. Make them hot and strong, John, and you will stand a greater chance of success. People like to have their blood curdled. If I had the talent to write a novel I should stick at nothing. Look at----," she mentioned the name of a living English author whose stories were wonderfully successful--"he deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. His pages absolutely reek with gore. Now, you can't convince me that he is describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred, that never could have occurred. It is just the same with this story that I have been reading. Very clever, of course, and very horrible, but absolutely untrue." That was her verdict, and I knew it was useless to argue with her. We arrived at Geneva between eight and nine o'clock. In accordance with Barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the Hotel de la Paix, where Maxwell was to meet us. She was disappointed that he was not at the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him. It happened that the lady and gentleman of whom I have spoken took the same omnibus and were seated when we entered. They drew into a corner of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat between his companion and Barbara. He seemed to be desirous that the ladies should not sit next to each other. A disappointment awaited Barbara at the hotel. Maxwell was not there. When I gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms we were to occupy, he said, "There is a letter for madame," and handed it to her. It was from Maxwell. She read it with a frown. "It is a shame--a shame!" she cried. "What does he say?" I asked. "He will not be here till the end of the week," she replied, fretfully. "He may not be here at all." "I am sorry," I said. "You are not," she retorted, fiercely. "You are glad." And certainly it was she who spoke the truth. We went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then I came down again to order dinner. Returning to inform Barbara that it would be ready in twenty minutes, I found the door locked. "Let me alone," Barbara cried from within. "I don't want any dinner. You can have it without me. It won't spoil your appetite." I turned to go downstairs and met Annette. "Is my wife unwell?" I asked. "Madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman answered. "She does not require me any longer to-night. I am to get something to eat and go to bed. Good-night, monsieur." "Good-night, Annette." She had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait upon her mistress.