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 and then, changing her mind, bade him wait for her. She pulled the bell with a swift, energetic jerk.

"It is a modest house," she observed to Ellen in short, ironic syllables colored by an accent that was indefinable. "A modest house for a rich American. Usually they are more flamboyant."

Impatiently she pulled the bell a second time and presently the commonplace door was opened by a Breton maid in a white cap who bade them enter. Inside, away from the dripping cobblestones of the Rue Raynouard, it was clear that the stranger succumbed to the magic of the house. For an instant, she remained silent, staring in astonishment at the long sweep of stairs and the array of glittering crystal. Then she made a grunting noise and addressed the maid in French.

"Madame Shane. . . . Is she in?"

"No," replied the girl. "She is at Nice. . . . She has been gone since two weeks."

The stranger translated the speech and for a moment there was a silence in which the face of Ellen, pale and handsome in her mourning, was shadowed by a sudden look of terror. It vanished quickly and she said to her companion, "Ask for Madame Gigon."

Madame Gigon was in. She never went out any more. At the moment she was in the drawing room. Should she ask if Madame Gigon would see them?

"This," observed the bright ferret, to the maid, "is Madame Shane's cousin. She has come to pay her a visit."

The stairway before them led downwards in the most unexpected fashion. Between panels of satinwood adorned with plaques of gilt and rock crystal and filled with candles, it swept down for the depth of two stories, past a gallery which led away on both sides, into a dim vista of polished floor at the end of which there was a high window with small panes of glass that gave out upon a garden. At the sight, a faint touch of color appeared on the cheeks of Ellen and her eyes grew bright with