"Perhaps she has already given her heart away," he thought to himself. "But, no, she is too young. That cannot be." As he walked slowly along the path toward the villa something bright and shining on the ground attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it up. A cry of eager surprise broke from his lips. It was the pretty, blue-enamelled locket that Irene usually wore around her white throat. It had become detached from the slender gold chain and fallen on the ground without her knowledge. Julius Revington had endured many pangs of baffled curiosity over this locket, of whose contents he had heard much from the ladies but which he had never had the good fortune to behold. Pausing now in the quiet, secluded path, he deliberately touched the spring of the pretty bauble. The lid flew open, and there before him under the soft light of the Italian sky that sifted down through the glistening leaves of the orange trees, were revealed the handsome faces of old Ronald Brooke and his daughter. A hoarse cry broke from Julius Revington's lips, his face whitened, a cold dew started out upon his brow. "My God," he said, and sank down upon a bed of flowers as if totally overcome. With starting eyes he looked at the kind, genial, manly face of the old man, and then at the fair, almost angelic face of Elaine. An uncontrollable shudder shook his form. "Father and daughter!" he said, under his breath. Sitting there in the balmy air with the soft murmur of the waves in his ears, he relapsed into thought. Minutes went silently by, bringing a subtle change into the man's face. His cheeks glowed, his downcast eyes sparkled. "A master rather than a slave," he muttered at last with an evil triumph in his tone; "so be it." Slowly rising, he retraced his steps to Irene. He met her coming along the path toward him, her fair face anxious and troubled. "Oh, Mr. Revington," she cried, "I have lost the locket off my chain! Have you seen it anywhere?" He held it up to the light, and her sweet face glowed with joy. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Revington," she cried, "I am so glad! I feared I had lost it forever!" "I am very glad to have the good fortune to restore it to you," he said; "it lay directly in my path as I was returning to the villa." "I am so glad," she repeated, kissing it as if it had been some sentient thing. "You see, Mr. Revington, it was a gift to me from one who is now dead--one whom I loved--dearly," she concluded, with a falter in her voice and a mist of tears in her eyes. "Miss Berlin, will you pardon me if I ask you what may seem an impertinent question?" he asked. She brushed the soft dew from her eyes with her lace handkerchief, and looked up at him with her soft, wondering glance. "Well?" she said. He did not look at her in return; his shifting eyes fell to the ground, as was their wonted habit.