And certainly the three weeks we spent at the old-fashioned Europe--in preference to a newer and more garish hotel--were most delightful. I found myself ever at Asta's side, and noted that her beauty was everywhere remarked. She was always smartly but neatly dressed--for Shaw was apparently most generous in the matter of gowns, some of which had come from a well-known dressmaker in the Place Vendome. I wondered sometimes, as we sat together in the big _salle a manger_ or idled together under the trees in the pretty garden, whether she still thought of poor Guy Nicholson--or whether she was really pleased when alone with me. One fact was quite plain--that the visit had wrought a beneficial change in her. Her large dark eyes were again full of life and sparkle, and her lips smiled deliciously, showing how she enjoyed the brightness and gaiety of life. Shaw had met accidentally at the Grand Cercle a Frenchman he knew named Count d'Auray, who had a chateau on the edge of the Lake, and one day he went over to visit him, leaving us to have luncheon together alone. As we sat on the verandah of the hotel to take our coffee afterwards, I glanced at her. Never had I seen her looking so charming. She was entirely in cream serge, relieved with the slightest touches of pale blue, with a large white hat, long white gloves, and white shoes,--the personification of summer itself. Ah, yes! she was exquisite, I told myself. Yet how strange that she should be the adopted daughter of a man who, though actually a Justice of the Peace, was nevertheless an undesirable. Time after time had I tried to induce her to reveal to me the reason why Shaw went in such terror of arrest. But she would not betray his secret. For that I admired her--for was she not devoted to him? Did she not owe everything to his kindness and his generosity? Like many another man, I suppose he had been fooled or tricked by a woman, and had, in consequence, to lead a celibate life. In order to bring brightness and youth into his otherwise dull home, he had adopted little Asta as his daughter. We had been speaking of a forthcoming fete on the following day when, of a sudden, she turned in her chair towards me, and with a calm, serious look upon her face said-- "Do you know, Mr Kemball, I am greatly worried?" "Over what?" I asked quickly. "Well, this morning, when I was walking back from the milliner's, I saw Earnshaw--that woman's husband. Fortunately, he did not see me. But she is, I suspect, here in Aix-les-Bains." "Why should you fear even if she is?" I asked. "I--well, I really do not know," she faltered. "Only--to tell you in confidence--I believe some evil work is in progress--some base conspiracy." "What causes you to suspect that? You do not believe that your father is implicated in it?" "How can I tell?" she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "I am filled with fear always--knowing in what peril he continually exists."