She had looked at him full, searchingly, inscrutably, for a long moment and saying nothing, had turned away. What was to be the outcome of it all? Huckaby was perplexed. The week had passed pleasantly. Even his enforced and sardonic attendance on Martha had not been able to spoil the charm of the new life, bastard though it was. Mrs. Fontaine had continued not to let her friends in Paris know of her presence in the city, and the week had been a history of peaceful jaunts—to Chantilly, Fontainebleau, Sèvres (where Monsieur Sardanel had spread before their ravished eyes his collection of Mexican rattles and masks and obsidian-edged swords); to “Robinson” on the island in the Seine, where they had lunched in the tree restaurant; in a word, to all sorts of sweet summer places where the trees were green and the world was bathed in sunshine and innocence. The week had evidently passed pleasantly for Quixtus, who had given no intimation of the date of his return to London. He was lotus eating; obviously, too, under the charm of the sorceress, wax in her hands. Of his fiendish purpose Huckaby still had no suspicion. As far as Huckaby could see, Mrs. Fontaine had made an easy conquest of his patron, and why she had up to now forborne to carry out the essential part of the plot, he could not understand. Perhaps she loathed the idea as much as he did. Her outburst against Billiter gave weight to the theory. It was all very complicated. And here were these two engaged in a deep and semi-sentimental conversation while Lady Louisa stuffed herself with chocolate, and he, Huckaby, was bored to death. What was going to happen? The thing that did happen was Clementina’s inrush. She marched straight up to the table, and, disregarding startled eyes, thrust the telegram into Quixtus’s hand. “Read that. You may find one like it at your hotel, or you may not. I thought it right to bring it.” Mrs. Fontaine kept her elbows on the table, and regarded Clementina with well-bred insolence. Lady Louisa finished her chocolate. Quixtus read the telegram and his face grew a shade paler and his fingers trembled a little. Huckaby rose and, drawing a chair from another table, offered it to Clementina. She waved it away, with a curt acknowledgment. Quixtus looked up at her. “This is terrible—Will Hammersley dying——” He made an attempt to rise, but Clementina put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up. I’m going.” A sudden hardening change came over Quixtus’s features. “Stay,” said he. “It was very kind of you to bring this; but I’m afraid it has nothing to do with me.” “Nothing to do with you?” She regarded him in amazement. “Your lifelong friend is dying and implores you to come to him, and you say it’s nothing to do with you?” “He was a villain, a base villain,” said Quixtus, with quivering lips. “Stuff and nonsense!” cried Clementina indignantly. Had the man gone absolutely crazy after all?