“By Destiny,” she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyes on the ground. Francis burst out laughing. “Or, if you like it better,” she instantly resumed, “by what fools call Chance.” Francis answered easily, out of the depths of his strong common sense. “Chance seems to be taking a queer way of bringing the meeting about,” he said. “We have all arranged to meet at the Palace Hotel. How is it that your name is not on the Visitors” List? Destiny ought to have brought you to the Palace Hotel too.” She abruptly pulled down her veil. “Destiny may do that yet!” she said. “The Palace Hotel?” she repeated, speaking once more to herself. “The old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. The place itself! Jesu Maria! the place itself!” She paused and laid her hand on her companion’s arm. “Perhaps Miss Lockwood is not going there with the rest of you?” she burst out with sudden eagerness. “Are you positively sure she will be at the hotel?” “Positively! Haven’t I told you that Miss Lockwood travels with Lord and Lady Montbarry? and don’t you know that she is a member of the family? You will have to move, Countess, to our hotel.” She was perfectly impenetrable to the bantering tone in which he spoke. “Yes,” she said faintly, “I shall have to move to your hotel.” Her hand was still on his arm—he could feel her shivering from head to foot while she spoke. Heartily as he disliked and distrusted her, the common instinct of humanity obliged him to ask if she felt cold. “Yes,” she said. “Cold and faint.” “Cold and faint, Countess, on such a night as this?” “The night has nothing to do with it, Mr. Westwick. How do you suppose the criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting the rope around his neck? Cold and faint, too, I should think. Excuse my grim fancy. You see, Destiny has got the rope round _my_ neck—and _I_ feel it.” She looked about her. They were at that moment close to the famous café known as “Florian’s.” “Take me in there,” she said; “I must have something to revive me. You had better not hesitate. You are interested in reviving me. I have not said what I wanted to say to you yet. It’s business, and it’s connected with your theatre.” Wondering inwardly what she could possibly want with his theatre, Francis reluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situation, and took her into the café. He found a quiet corner in which they could take their places without attracting notice. “What will you have?” he inquired resignedly. She gave her own orders to the waiter, without troubling him to speak for her. “Maraschino. And a pot of tea.”