“Have you read about the great robbery that occurred last night?” asked Mr. Paddington, with the evident purpose of diverting attention from the young lady. “The vaults of the Metropolitan Bank on Wall Street were blown open with dynamite, and half a million dollars were stolen. No trace of the thieves has been discovered.” “Too bad!” exclaimed half a dozen of the guests seeking to enhance interest in the subject. “Zey were very bold about it,” said the Count, as he lighted a piece of sugar soaked in cognac and held it over his coffee. Just at that moment a singular thing happened. The lights grew dim and suddenly went out, as if the gas had been turned off. The burning cognac cast a white flickering light upon the face of the man who had just spoken. “You say there is no trace of the thieves,” said Rayel. “That is strange, for one of them is in this room sitting at your table.” Only one face was visible, and all eyes were turned upon it, for now the effect of that pale light keeping it in view was indescribably weird. The eyes were suddenly turned in the direction of Rayel, and a devilish glare came in them for an instant, when the face suddenly seemed to shrink back into darkness. The ladies and some of their more gallant escorts rushed precipitately from the room. The servants hurried in with candles, but light was no sooner restored than the guests who still remained at table rose, as if by general consent, and left the dining-hall. Miss Paddington and Rayel were the last to leave the table. When they had passed out into the drawing-room her father came and took her arm, bowing coldly to my cousin. It was evident that our presence was no longer desired in the house of the Paddingtons. And no wonder! “Let us go,” I said, proceeding to the coat room. The Count met us on the way. “You are a liar--a jackass!” he hissed into Rayel's ear. Hastily drawing on our coats we stepped out into the chilly night air and walked leisurely down the deserted avenue. Neither of us spoke for some moments. Presently Rayel asked: “What is a jackass?” He stopped and took my hand as if expecting an answer of great moment. “A man who always tells the truth in this world--he is a jackass,” I replied. I was a little irritated by the trying experiences we had been through. Perhaps that is why my answer savored so strongly of cynicism. CHAPTER IX