She started, shuddering, to her feet, and spasm after spasm shook her galvanized frame, as she picked up her letter, found a match, drew it, set fire to the paper, threw it, blazing, down upon the marble hearth, and watched it until it was consumed to a little heap of light ashes. "There! That can never fall into the Duke of Hereward's hands _now_!" she said with a bitter laugh. Meanwhile the rapping continued. "Well! well! well! well! Can't you be patient!" she exclaimed, very _im_patiently, as she tottered tremblingly across the room and opened the door. Her dressing-maid, Mademoiselle Desiree, was there. "_Pardonnez moi, madame_; but you ordered me to come to dress you for a drive at twelve. The clock has just struck, madame," said the girl deprecatingly. Valerie put her hand to her head in a bewildered way, and stared at the speaker a full minute before she could recollect herself sufficiently to reply. "Yes--yes--yes--yes--I believe so. You can come in." The girl entered and stood waiting for orders. Receiving none, she ventured to inquire: "What dress shall madame wear?" "My--my writing desk! Bring it here to me," answered the lady, as she sank into a chair, and drew a little ivory stand before her. "I wonder if madame indulges in absinthe in the morning?" was the secret thought of the discreet Mademoiselle Desiree, as she brought the elegant little malachite writing-desk, and placed it before her mistress. Valerie opened it, took out a piece of note-paper and wrote: "I cannot write much. I am stricken. I am dying. I hope you are right in what you say. Come here tomorrow at twelve, noon. I will give you the interview you seek." * * * * * This note was without date, address or signature, or any word to guide a strange reader to its true meaning. She put it into a sealed envelope, and directed it to _Count de Volaski, Poste Restante_. Then she sat back in her chair, exhausted from the slight exertion. The maid watched her mistress for a little while, and then said: "Pardon, madame; but it is half-past twelve." "Yes! I must dress," said Valerie rising. "What costume will madame wear?" "Any. It does not signify." The maid indulged in an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, and laid out an elegant black rep silk, heavily trimmed with black crape and jet, with mantle, bonnet and vail to match. "White or black gloves, madame?" "Black, of course. It is not a wedding reception." "Pardon, madame," said the girl; and she added the black gloves to the costume. Valerie was soon dressed, and then the maid said: "The carriage waits, madame." Valerie took the note she had prepared and went down stairs, entered her barouche, and ordered the coachman to drive to the British Legation, Hotel Borghese, Rue Faubourg St. Honore.