"It's GOT to be straightened out. It would be monstrous to allow--" The Countess shook her head, then, with a mirthless smile, exclaimed: "But what a situation! Henri, of all persons! It's pleasant for me, isn't it? Well, somebody planted that poke--probably one of the McCaskeys. They'd like to railroad the boy. Joe is as vindictive as an Indian and he blames Pierce and me for his brother's death." In desperation Rouletta cried: "I'll pay the Count back his money--I'll double it." "HIS money?" sneered the woman. "He hasn't a cent, except what I give him. That was McCaskey's dust." She stared at the apprehensive figure crouched upon the edge of the chair, and slowly her expression softened. In a gentler tone she said, "I see you didn't take my advice; you didn't heed my warning." "Who ever heeds a warning like yours?" "Does Pierce know that you--feel this way about him?" Rouletta sighed wearily. "I didn't know myself, although I more than half suspected. I didn't permit myself to think, it made me so unhappy." "It ought to satisfy me somewhat to learn that he doesn't care for you, but--somehow it doesn't. He didn't care for me, either. But I cared for him. I love him now, just as you love him--better, probably. Oh, why conceal it? I've spent a good many black hours thinking about it and trying to fight it. Mind you, it wasn't his fault; it was just fate. There are some fellows who go smiling and singing along through life--clean, decent fellows, too--attending to their own affairs in a perfectly proper manner, but leaving a trail of havoc behind them. It isn't so true of women--they're usually flirts--their smiles don't last and the echo of their songs dies out. He's perfectly impossible for me. I wouldn't marry him if I were free and if he asked me. But that has nothing whatever to do with the case." "I had no idea!" Rouletta said. "I suppose there's no hope for me, either. I'm not his kind. He's told me about his life, his people. I wouldn't fit in." "It isn't that--people are adaptable, they make themselves fit, for a while at least--it's a question of identities. As much a matter of family histories as anything else. You're his antithesis in every respect and--like should mate with like. Now then, about this other trouble. I must work in my own way, and I see but one. I'll have to pay high, but--" The speaker lifted her shoulders as if a cold wind had chilled her. "I've paid high, up to date, and I suppose I shall to the end. Meanwhile, if you can get him out of jail, do so by all means. I can't. I daren't even try." When, at a late hour, Count Henri Courteau entered the establishment that bore his name he was both surprised and angered to find his wife still awake. The guests of the hotel were asleep, the place was quiet, but the Countess was reading in an easy-chair beside the office stove. She was in negligee, her feet were resting upon the stove fender. She turned her head to say: