There was a finality in her voice. It was more an affirmation than a question. "Madame," Shane said, "will you please let me see you to your door?" She looked at him for an intense second, and a little cloud of--was it fear?--flitted across her face. "Madame, there are thieves and villains of all kinds abroad. You have had one experience. Please let me protect you from a possible second." "If you wish." She smiled. He called a carriage. In the light she was a different person. Along the sea-shore walking in the dusk, she was a troubled phantom, a thing of beauty, but without flesh, without the trappings of clothes--as if a spirit had been imprisoned in cold white statuary. But now she was a beautiful woman, gravely gay, a woman of the world, not of the great world, perhaps, and not of the half-world--just a woman aware of and experienced in life. And poised. "You are English?" "Not English. Irish." Poised she was, but she was like a player playing a game, and the breaks against her. He knew the smile. He had seen it often on Alan Donn's face, playing in some of the great title matches. Four holes to go, and he must better par. It's all right, the smile said; there's nothing wrong. But in Alan Donn's was the glint of a naked knife, and in this woman's eyes, down deep, veiled, but ill concealed, was appeal. [Illustration] They stopped at her house. He helped her out. "_Adieu, Monsieur_. And again a thousand thanks." "_C'etait un vrai plaisir!_" "Monsieur!" "Madame!" The cabman looked surprised when ordered to return. He turned and regarded his fare with amazement. "_Quai de la Fraternite_," I said. "_Hup, alors!_" The cabby shrugged his shoulders. And they trotted ploddingly through the dusk of Pontius Pilate to the burning cloud which was Marseilles.... Section 5 He knew he should meet her again, and where he should meet her, and he did, on the Prado. He knew when. In the Midi dusk. A touch of mistral was out, and the wind blew seaward. She was sitting down, looking toward Africa. "You oughtn't to come out here alone," he said. "Marseilles is a bad port." "I know," she said. "I know. But it draws me, this spot. You leave soon?" she asked. "In a few days." "But you will be back." "Yes, I will be back," he told her. "I don't know why, but I think I'd rather die than not see Marseilles again. It is a second home, and yet I know so few people here." "If one has the temperament, and conditions are--as they should be--Marseilles is wonderful." "One could be happy here." "Yes," and she sighed.