“So you’ve come back from Brussels?” Cecil said, taking her arm and waist. “Yes. We arrived just on time for dinner. But what have you been doing with father? We’ve seen nothing of him.” “Ah!” said Cecil mysteriously. “We’ve been on a little voyage, and, like you, we’ve only just returned.” “In the _Claribel_?” He nodded. “You might have waited,” she pouted. “Perhaps you wouldn’t have liked it. Things happened, you know.” “Why, what? Do tell me.” “Well, you left your poor father alone, and he was moping all day on Tuesday. So on Tuesday night I had the happy idea of going out in the yacht to witness a sham night attack by the French Channel Squadron on Calais. I caught your honoured parent just as he was retiring to bed, and we went. He was only too glad. But we hadn’t left the harbour much more than an hour and a half when our engines broke down.” “What fun! And at night, too!” “Yes. Wasn’t it? The shaft was broken. So we didn’t see much of any night attack on Calais. Fortunately the weather was all that the weather ought to be when a ship’s engines break down. Still, it took us over forty hours to repair--over forty hours! I’m proud we were able to do the thing without being ignominiously towed into port. But I fear your father may have grown a little impatient, though we had excellent views of Ostend and Dunkirk, and the passing vessels were a constant diversion.” “Was there plenty to eat?” Geraldine asked simply. “Ample.” “Then father wouldn’t really mind. When did you land?” “About an hour ago. Your father did not expect you to-night, I fancy. He dressed and went straight to the tables. He has to make up for a night lost, you see.” They danced in silence for a few moments, and then suddenly Geraldine said-- “Will you excuse me? I feel tired. Good night.” The clock under the orchestra showed seventeen minutes to ten. “Instantly?” Cecil queried. “Instantly.” And the girl added, with a hint of mischief in her voice, as she shook hands: “I look on you as quite a friend since our last little talk; so you will excuse this abruptness, won’t you?” He was about to answer when a sort of commotion arose near behind them. Still holding her hand he turned to look. “Why!” he said. “It’s your mother! She must be unwell!” Mrs. Rainshore, stout, and robed, as always, in tight, sumptuous black, sat among a little bevy of chaperons. She held a newspaper in trembling hands, and she was uttering a succession of staccato “Oh-oh’s,” while everyone in the vicinity gazed at her with alarm. Then she dropped the paper, and, murmuring, “Simeon’s dead!” sank gently to the polished floor just as Cecil and Geraldine approached. Geraldine’s first instinctive move was to seize the newspaper, which was that day’s Paris edition of the _New York Herald_. She read the headlines in a flash: “Strange disappearance of Simeon Rainshore. Suicide feared. Takes advantage of his family’s absence. Heavy drop in Dry Goods. Shares at 72 and still falling.” VI.