"None," rather despondingly. "I'm sorry. I had hoped by this time to get somewhere. But it happens that I can't get any farther than this house." She did not ask him what he meant by that. "Shall I play something for you?" she said. "Please." He drew a chair beside the piano and watched her fingers, white as the ivory keys, flutter up and down the board. She played Chopin for him, Mendelssohn, Grieg and Chaminade; and she played them in a surprisingly scholarly fashion. He had expected the usual schoolgirl choice and execution; _Titania_, the _Moonlight Sonata_ (which not half a dozen great pianists have ever played correctly), _Monastery Bells_, and the like. He had prepared to make a martyr of himself; instead, he was distinctly and delightfully entertained. "You don't," he said whimsically, when she finally stopped, "you don't, by any chance, know _The Maiden's Prayer_?" She laughed. This piece was a standing joke at school. "I have never played it. It may, however, be in the cabinet. Would you like to hear it?" mischievously. "Heaven forfend!" he murmured, raising his hands. All the while the letter burned against her heart, and the smile on her face and the gaiety on her tongue were forced. "Confide in no one," she repeated mentally, "or you seal my death warrant." "Why do you shake your head like that?" he asked. "Did I shake my head?" Her heart fluttered wildly. "I was not conscious of it." "Are you going to keep your promise?" "What promise?" "Never to leave this house without Jones or myself being with you." "I couldn't if I wanted to. I'll wager Jones is out there in the hall this minute. I know; it is all for my sake. But it bothers me." Jones was indeed in the hall, and when he sensed the petulance in her voice his shoulders sank despondently and he sighed deeply if silently. At a quarter to eight Florence, being alone for a minute, set fire to a veil and stuffed it down the register. "Jones," she called excitedly, "I smell something burning!" Jones dashed into the room, sniffed, and dashed out again, heading for the cellar door. His first thought was naturally that the devils incarnate had set fire to the house. When he returned, having, of course, discovered no fire, he found Florence gone. He rushed into the hall. Her hat was missing. He made for the hall door with a speed which seemed incredible to the bewildered Susan's eyes. Out into the street, up and down which he looked. Far away he discovered a dwindling taxicab. The child was gone. In the house Susan was answering the telephone, talking incoherently. "Who is it?" Jones whispered, his lips white and dry. [Illustration: "WHO IS IT?" WHISPERED JONES, HIS LIPS WHITE AND DRY] "The countess...." began Susan. He took the receiver from her roughly. "Hello, who is it?" "This is Olga Perigoff. Is Florence there?" "No, madam. She has just stepped out for a moment. Shall I tell her to call you when she returns?"