Whitehouse, seemingly his most intimate friend, seemed more than a little mysterious too. He always gave Leonard the impression of a man who was constantly keeping close watch upon himself lest he should drop something that he did not wish known. And who was this independent, self-assured young woman, Zillah Mayhew, with the blemish on her neck and that striking pendant, who seemed to spend her life in rushing hither and thither, and was on such intimate terms with Uncle Howard? He led the conversation presently round to the same subject, for all the time he was making his strokes the dark, handsome Zillah, with her foreign look, was in his thoughts. “What a lovely sapphire that is she wears! You noticed it, of course?” “One could not very well avoid noticing it,” was the reply. “As I have told you, I haven’t seen her many times, but on every occasion she has had it on. Uncle says it is her mascot.” “And did you also notice that peculiar blemish on her neck which, cleverly as she tries to hide it, peeps through the powder?” “Yes, I did,” answered Gloria, “for the first time to-day. I am certain it was not there the last time I saw her.” “And how long ago might that be?” was her lover’s next question. The girl considered. “Let me see. I am not very good at remembering dates. But I do recollect this much. She came over here a few weeks before we went on that visit to Nice where we met you and your friend, Mr. Craig.” Lydon was thinking rapidly: “You didn’t happen to meet her at Nice?” Gloria looked at him in surprise at the question. “No, I am sure I did not. What makes you suggest it?” The young man laughed a little awkwardly. It was too early to tell his sweetheart the strange suspicions which had formed in his mind. “Oh, no particular reason. But from what she said at luncheon, she seems to be always on the travel. It just struck me she might have been there at that particular time.” He left on the Monday morning this time, having on a great pressure of work. He would not be able to ask Gloria to lunch in town during the week, as he was so uncertain of his engagements, but he would be sure to be down on the following Friday. He went back to his business, very much obsessed with his thoughts of the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew. Was it only a queer fancy of his that had led him to connect her with the woman who had been the cause of his friend’s death? When he got back to his rooms in Ryder Street, he hunted up the portrait in the illustrated paper which he had brought with him from Nice. It was a blurred and wretched thing. One moment he fancied he could detect a resemblance between Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew, the next he was bound to confess he could see not the slightest resemblance.