"It is my misfortune," he said, "to be obliged to assure you that Mr. Stanton is mistaken. I know him as well as one can do without having met him, through his book, and a world-wide reputation, but beyond that I have not till now had the pleasure." We looked into each other's eyes, and I knew the man lied, and that he hated me. But the mystery of his personality and my share in his past was as profound a mystery as before. "Lady Tressidy sent me out particularly," he continued, "in quest of you both, having recognised Mr. Stanton from his numerous counterfeit presentments, and she hopes that you will come and be introduced to her and to Miss Cunningham in their box." Farnham looked at me doubtfully, fearing perhaps that I would refuse. But, grudgingly as the message was evidently delivered by Wildred, I grasped at the opportunity it gave. I should speak to Miss Cunningham. I should know her. I might dare to look at her, and I might touch her hand. I have gone through some queer experiences in rather an eventful life, and have generally managed to keep a cool head in emergencies. But my head was not cool to-night. Everything was dark to me, except the one lovely face raised smilingly towards mine, as some murmured words of introduction were spoken in the box, a little later, giving me the right henceforth to claim Miss Cunningham as an acquaintance. I suppose I answered coherently when Lady Tressidy addressed me, and talked without openly making an idiot of myself to Sir Walter. But I remember nothing of the conversation between the second and third acts, save the few words spoken by Miss Cunningham, and an invitation from Lady Tressidy to call on one of her "At Home" days. After I had gratefully accepted, I turned to the girl. "Lady Tressidy has said I may come and see her," I ventured. "Will you--may I hope to find you with her when I do?" She looked up with a sudden, illumining smile that answered me. "Come soon," she returned. They were her last words for me that night, and they rang in my head as I left her, dizzy with the memory of her loveliness. CHAPTER III A Dead Man's Hand I had taken rooms temporarily at the Savoy Hotel, not knowing how long it might be ere I should be moved in spirit to desert London; and that night, instead of looking in at the club as I had meant, I went from the theatre straight to the hotel. There was a fire burning in my room, and I drew up a chair before it to smoke an unlimited number of cigarettes, and to think of Karine Cunningham. I had parted from Farnham outside the theatre, and had made an appointment to meet him next day at dinner, which he was to eat with me at my hotel. I felt no inclination for bed, nor was I in the least sleepy, and yet, before an hour had passed, I must have fallen into a doze.