It may have been my imagination, but I am not sure that there did not stir in my memory some faint echo, of a woman sitting under a murky dome as she waited for her _Manuel de Répertoire Bibliographique Universel_. I know these secretaries and their wiles, and if my answer had had twenty syllables instead of one I should have meant them all. "No," I said. We had reached the wrought-iron gates at the beginning of the sandy drive. Three or four cars were parked there, and apparently somebody or other was leaving early, for a chauffeur had just switched on the head-lights of a heavy touring-car that shook the ground with its muttering. Judging from the power of the lights it was the car of one of Madge's French friends, for no English car carries shafts so blinding as those twin beams that clove the darkness. They made the windows of the house seem a dull expiring turnip-lantern. Their blaze lighted up every pebble, every blade of grass, defined the shadows of blade on blade. Out of the fumy darkness insects dropped, stunned with light, and moved feebly on the path. I drew Jennie behind the glare, and as I did so one of the English servant maids came up to me. "A gentleman wishes to speak to you, sir," she said. "To me? What gentleman? Where?" "A French gentleman, sir. A M'seer Arnaud his name is." "Arnaud? I don't know any Arnaud. Are you sure he asked for me and not for Mr Aird?" "It was Sir George Coverham he asked for, sir." "Well, where is he?" "Here--at least he was a moment ago----" "Arnaud?" I mused. "Do you know a M'sieur Arnaud, Jennie?" As I turned to her I saw her in that false illumination with curious distinctness. The soft upward glow from the path reminded one of a photographer's manipulation of his tissue-paper screens. She stood there semi-footlighted--smooth brows, low glint of her hair, the caught-up upper lip that showed the pearls, her steady gaze.... Ah, her gaze! What was this, that made me for a moment unable to remove my own eyes from her face? At what object beyond the car was she so fixedly looking? Why had her bosom risen? Why, as if at some "Open, Sesame!" did that betraying upper lip offer, not two, but all the pearls within? My eyes followed hers.... As they did so sounds of talk and laughter and farewells drew near from the house. The departing guests were upon us. But I had seen. If only for an instant before it retreated swiftly into the shadows again, I had seen. Gazing at her as steadily as she had gazed at him, the vision of a young man's face had momentarily appeared. Then the babble broke out about us. "Thank you a thousand times, chère Madame----" "Delicieuse----" "Merci, M'sieu' Air-r-r-rd----" "Better have the rug round you----" "Where's Jennie? Ah, here she is----" "À demain, à onze heures----" "Good-bye----" "Good-bye, Sair-r-r George----"