This vision lost, another came. This time it was that of Clements’s wife leaning from the marble balustrade above, the shadow of approaching grief battling with the present terror in her perfect features. Then she too withdrew from view and Violet, left for the moment alone in the great hall, stepped back into the library and began to put on her hat. The lights had been turned up in the grand salon and it was in this scene of gorgeous colour that Mrs. Quintard came face to face with Carlos Pelacios. Those who were witness to her entrance say that she presented a noble appearance, as with the resolution of extreme desperation she stood waiting for his first angry attack. He, a short, thick-set, dark man, showing both in features and expression the Spanish blood of his paternal ancestors, started to address her in tones of violence, but changed his note, as he met her eye, to one simply sardonic. “You here!” he began. “I assure you, madame, that it is a pleasure which is not without its inconveniences. Did you not receive my cablegram requesting this house to be made ready for my occupancy?” “I did.” “Then why do I find guests here? They do not usually precede the arrival of their host.” “Clement is very ill--” “So much the greater reason that he should have been removed--” “You were not expected for two days yet. You cabled that you were coming on the Mauretania.” “Yes, I cabled that. Elisabetta,”--this to his wife standing silently in the background--“we will go to the Plaza for tonight. At three o’clock tomorrow we shall expect to find this house in readiness for our return. Later, if Mrs. Quintard desires to visit us we shall be pleased to receive her. But”--this to Mrs. Quintard herself--“you must come without Clement and the kids.” Mrs. Quintard’s rigid hand stole up to her throat. “Clement is dying. He is failing hourly,” she murmured. “He may not live till morning.” Even Carlos was taken aback by this. “Oh, well!” said he, “we will give you two days.” Mrs. Quintard gasped, then she walked straight up to him. “You will give us all the time his condition requires and more, much more. He is the real owner of this house, not you. My brother left a will bequeathing it to him. You are my nephew’s guests, and not he yours. As his representative I entreat you and your wife to remain here until you can find a home to your mind.” The silence seethed. Carlos had a temper of fire and so had his wife. But neither spoke, till he had gained sufficient control over himself to remark without undue rancour: “I did not think you had the wit to influence your brother to this extent; otherwise, I should have cut my travels short.” Then harshly: “Where is this will?” “It will be produced.” But the words faltered. Carlos glanced at the man standing behind his wife; then back at Mrs. Quintard.