Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing to her tell-tale cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped her cup and cried out. "When I left Madame," murmured Marie to herself, "and Madame is now so attached to the little boy Blakeney. I wonder, oh, I wonder!" muttered the Frenchwoman. Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm were crushed, might never be used freely again; but there were no fatal injuries. Deep in her heart, after the first remorse for the angry push which she had given the child, Denise had hoped that he might die. Once dead there would be no more danger of detection. Esmé would give up worrying her. There was a dance next night given by a newcomer to London, an Italian Marchese. Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger. Three times Esmé had rung up to know if she might see the child, and Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not come." The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment. Esmé, with her cheeks too pink, her eyes bright and hard, felt anew the frost which was creeping about her. Friends bowed coldly; she saw nods, shrugged shoulders. She met Jimmie Gore Helmsley near the ball-room door. He was watching for a new love, a pretty little woman of twenty, married to a dull man who merely adored her and therefore took no pains to show it. The girl turned from gold to tinsel, because tinsel glittered and was more pleasing to the eye. "Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esmé was glad to see him. "Any news?" "Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay to tell it you, fair lady. It's curious news." Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly unfriendly. Esmé stood partnerless, hurt by the snub for a time, until she flashed smiles on boys who bored her, simply that she might not be alone. She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to slip away to avoid a meeting. "How is he?" Esmé darted through the crowd. Sir Cyril stood near his wife, his big face set coldly. "The boy? Oh! much better, thank you. So nice of you to take an interest in him." Denise's voice shook from nervousness. "May I not come to see him?" Sir Cyril interrupted quietly. "Impossible," he said, "impossible, Mrs Carteret. The boy is to be kept quiet. Come, Denise." It was an open snub, given before people who looked on full of malicious curiosity. Esmé stood, white under her rouge; there was something, and she did not know what it was. "Come, let us go to supper." She turned, laughing, to her partner. "I'm thirsty." The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses and bright jewels, swam before her eyes. Then at the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave and smile to her. The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate had brought him to London. Mechanically she walked on. "Ah, milady!"--his brown hand gripped hers. "Well met. And--you do not look well."