Lord Stuart’s valet had never yet seen the lady his master adored. Indeed, the valet was a reserved, unsociable fellow, and did not have much to do with the other servants at the hotel. He spent the greater part of his time in his master’s rooms attending to his wardrobe, and he did not seem to take any interest in anything else, said the aggrieved maids at the hotel. If he had not been so good-looking they would not have minded it so much, but the fellow, with his black hair and eyes and silky black beard, was handsome in an evil, morose sort of way, and not one of them but would have been charmed if Robert Lacy had noticed her. But he did not seem to care for any one. He was gloomy and morose always, as if brooding over some secret trouble. But when Robert Lacy heard it whispered at the hotel that his master was in love, he woke up to a feeble sort of curiosity, coupled with vexation. He had a good place as valet to a bachelor, and he felt that he would be sorry indeed if the condition of affairs was changed. Life could not be half so pleasant for him should Lord Stuart marry. When he found out later on that his master was enamored of a married lady he did not feel much easier in his mind. There was no telling what would happen. They might take it into their heads to elope. That would be quite as bad as a marriage. He became possessed of an ardent curiosity to see the lady who threatened to spoil the ease and comfort of his life with indulgent, easy-going Lord Stuart. But Mrs. de Vere had returned to Verelands. There was small chance for Robert Lacy to see her now, so he hailed the errand to Verelands with secret delight. When he made his appearance at Verelands he refused to surrender the magnificent bouquet to the servants. He told them, with unblushing audacity, that his orders were to give the flowers to no one but the lady herself. Mrs. de Vere was walking in the park, they told him, and Robert Lacy replied that he would find her himself. He turned from the curious negro servants and went into the grounds that now, in the latter part of November, were a wealth of tropical growth and flowers, with here and there a statue gleaming whitely through the twilight gloom and the luxuriant shrubbery. Camille was walking by the river-bank. It looked weird and gloomy there in the fast-fading light. Tall cypress-trees grew along its banks, and the water, swollen by recent rains, rushed along with a sullen sound. The proud, jealous woman stood leaning against the trunk of a tall cypress-tree, thinking perhaps that the angry, brawling river typified her feelings, when a step near by sent the quick blood to her face with the thought that her husband had followed her there. She turned with a swift smile of eager welcome, but recoiled in terror when she saw beside her a tall, dark, saturnine-looking man with a bunch of red roses in his hand. One swift glance into his face, and a cry of wild alarm and horror issued from her lips.