Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:-- "Marjory!" She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would hide her. "Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes. Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands. "It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. "Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!" Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at Beatrice. "He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he paid." "Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried. He tried to smile. "It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you were in Paris, Marjory." "I came here to-day." She spoke nervously. "Then," he asked, "you--you are to be here a little while?" Marjory passed her hand over her forehead. "I don't know," she faltered. Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her. Beatrice came nearer. "If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted so much to see you." It was as if she in some way were being held responsible. "You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory. "At the Hôtel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?" Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to make them understand. They were so American--so direct and uncompromising about such affairs as these. Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been here once with Aunt Kitty--they had stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Marjory mumbled that name now. "Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?" said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now." "I--I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter. "In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night." She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the dark. "I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back. It was only a few blocks to the Hôtel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once. CHAPTER XV IN THE DARK