“Well, it’s true that husbands are like Somebody’s sewing-machines--no home being complete without one,” he laughed. “But I really had no idea that Mademoiselle Carmela Rosselli possessed such a useful commodity.” “What!” I gasped, glaring at the hideous-looking Owl, “you know me?” “Yes,” he responded in a deeper voice, more earnestly than before. “I know quite well who you are. I have come here to-night expressly to speak with you.” I started, and stood glaring at him in wonderment. “I have,” he added in a low, confidential tone, “something important to say to you--something most important.” CHAPTER VIII NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT “You are a perfect stranger, sir,” I said with considerable hauteur. “Until you care to give me your name, and make known who you are, I have no wish to hear this important statement of yours.” “No,” he answered. “I regret very much that for certain reasons I am unfortunately unable to furnish my name. I am The Owl--that is sufficient.” “No, not for me. I am not in the habit of thus chattering with strangers at a public ball, therefore I wish you good-evening,” I said, and turned abruptly away. In an instant he was again by my side. “Listen, Miss Rosselli,” he said in a deeply earnest tone. “You must listen to me. I have something to tell you which closely concerns yourself--your future welfare.” “Well?” I inquired. “I can’t speak here, as someone may overhear. I had to exercise the greatest precaution in approaching you, for there are spies everywhere, and a single blunder will be fatal.” “What do you mean?” I inquired, at once interested. The manner of this hideously disguised man who spoke such excellent English was certainly mysterious, and I could not doubt that he was in real earnest. “Let us walk over there and sit in that corner,” he said, indicating a seat half hidden in the bamboos. “If there is no one near, I will explain. If we are watched, then we must contrive to find some other place.” “In our box,” I suggested. “We can sit at the back in the alcove where no one can see us.” “Excellent!” he answered. “I never thought of that. But if any of your party should return there?” “I can merely say that you invited me to dance, and I, in return, invited you there for a few moments’ rest.” “Then let’s go,” he said, and a few minutes later we were sitting far back in the shadow of the box on the second tier, high above the music and gay revelry. “Well?” I inquired eagerly when we were seated, “and why did you wish to see me to-night?” “First, I have knowledge--which you will not, I think, deny--that you loved a man in Washington, one Ernest Cameron.” “Well?” “And at this moment there is a second man who, although not your lover, is often in your thoughts. The man’s name is Benjamin Keppel. Am I correct?”