There was an other brief silence, broken again by the count, in the same composed tone: “Since the lady holds her levee so late, I, too, must have a word with her, when this deluge permits one to go abroad without danger of drowning.” “It shown symptoms of clearing off, already,” said Ormiston, who, in his secret heart, thought it would be an excellent joke to bring the rivals face to face in the lady's presence; “so you will not have long to wait.” To which observation the count replied not; and the three stood in silence, watching the fury of the storm. Gradually it cleared away; and as the moon began to straggle out between the rifts in the clouds, the count saw something by her pale light that Ormiston saw not. That latter gentleman, standing with his back to the house of Leoline, and his face toward that of La Masque, did not observe the return of Sir Norman from St. Paul's, nor look after him as he rode away. But the count did both; and ten minutes after, when the rain had entirely ceased, and the moon and stars got the better of the clouds in their struggle for supremacy, he beheld La Masque flitting like a dark shadow in the same direction, and vanishing in at Leoline's door. The same instant, Ormiston started to go. “The storm has entirely ceased,” he said, stepping out, and with the profound air of one making a new discovery, “and we are likely to have fine weather for the remainder of the night--or rather, morning. Good night, count.” “Farewell,” said the count, as he and, his companion came out from the shadow of the archway, and turned to follow La Masque. Ormiston, thinking the hour of waiting had elapsed, and feeling much more interested in the coming meeting than in Leoline or her visitors, paid very little attention to his two acquaintances. He saw them, it is true, enter Leoline's house, but at the same instant, he took up his post at La Masque's doorway, and concentrated his whole attention on that piece of architecture. Every moment seemed like a week now; and before he had stood at his post five minutes, he had worked himself up into a perfect fever of impatience. Sometimes he was inclined to knock and seek La Masque in her own home; but as often the fear of a chilling rebuke paralyzed his hand when he raised it. He was so sure she was within the house, that he never thought of looking for her elsewhere; and when, at the expiration of what seemed to him a century or two, but which in reality was about a quarter of an hour, there was a soft rustling of drapery behind him, and the sweetest of voices sounded in his ear, it fairly made him bound. “Here again, Mr. Ormiston? Is this the fifth or sixth time I've found you in this place to-night?” “La Masque!” he cried, between joy and surprise. “But surely, I was not totally unexpected this time?” “Perhaps not. You are waiting here for me to redeem my promise, I suppose?” “Can you doubt it? Since I knew you first, I have desired this hour as the blind desire sight.”