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the drawing-room. Now you ought to be contented—anyway, stop talking nonsense about Miles and me, and what I’m to do or not to do about him. See?”

The door closed after her, and Trelawney, vanquished, stared moodily into the fire. He did not look up to where the mask was resting, or he might have seen again the odd effect of the flickering flames upon it—almost, again, one might have said it smiled….

Jack Trelawney’s brow was clouded as he left home for his office next morning; things seemed no better between Maisie and himself, despite his tentative efforts at reconciliation. True to her word, Maisie had with her own hands hung the mask above the fireplace in the drawing-room, and with the sunlight dancing on her pretty hair and smart serge frock, pronounced it “odd, as I said, but rather decorative, after all!” She was nonchalantly charming to him, bidding him good-bye with a dutiful kiss on the cheek, but Jack’s sensitive heart ached for the old

Maisie again, full of instructions as to how he was to take care of himself this cold day, and running after him for another kiss, her warm lips pursed to meet his. With a frowning brow he read through his letters, dictated several answers to his secretary, and at last by dint of savage work managed to deaden a little the pain at his heart: Lunch-time was almost in sight when a messenger knocked at the door.

Trelawney looked up with a brusque “Come in,” and jumped, for the blue helmet of a stalwart constable loomed over the glass half-door.

“What on earth…” The door closed, and the policeman saluted, moving heavily into the room. Trelawney’s face was blank with astonishment and consternation, not lessened when the man in blue fished out a note-book and pencil.

“Excuse me, sir. Only called to arsk a few questions about the murder and sooicide at Schroeder’s yesterday; from the h’entry in the old man’s books, sir, you was the last person served, and it’s thought you might be able to help us with a little information, sir?”

“Suicide? I only know there had been a murder,” interrupted Trelawney, suddenly remembering he had been so preoccupied that he had never seen a morning paper. The constable nodded.

“Old man committed sooicide late larst night in the cell at the station—strangled himself with his braces. Now what we want to know, sir, do you know anything about a marsk?”

Trelawney jumped—the question was so unexpected.

“Mask? Yes, of course I do. I bought a mask from him that day—a sort of Chinese thing, I think. Why?”

“Don’t know where he got it—anything of its hist’ry, like?”

The constable was ponderously ploughing on his official way, regardless of Trelawney’s question. The latter shrugged his shoulders.

“No—I don’t know a thing. He professed ignorance as to where it came from, even. Why do you ask?”

“Why? Because he was calling and screaming out about the thing like a lunatic all the way to the station—and all the time he was locked up, too. Going on awful, he was—telling it to keep away, or close its eyes, because he’d done all it wanted. Awful it was, I give you my word, sir. So you’re quite sure you can’t throw any light on this here matter, sir?”

Trelawney’s decided negative closed the interview, and the constable creaked slowly out. Alone, Trelawney stood frowning, his head on the mantelpiece, thinking. Pretty horrible, what? Telling it to keep away or close its eyes. Come to think of the thing, those eyes, or rather eye-holes, were rather unpleasant—narrow, and almost with a beastly sort of laugh in them. Where did the thing come from, anyway? … Perhaps Maisie had been right, as she often was, and he would have been better advised to re-sell the head.

Poor little Maisie! By Jove, she had been upset last night; he had been a bad-tempered brute anyway, and she deserved a treat to make up.

There was the new show at the Lyric—what about going to-night?

Acting on impulse, Trelawney took up the receiver and rang up his home number. The answer came promptly—the maid speaking. Trelawney’s face darkened suddenly as he listened, and with a curse he slammed the receiver home. His square-chinned face was not good to look upon as he flung on his hat and went out to lunch, muttering viciously to himself.

“Out motoring with Miles, eh? Not likely to be back till late, so don’t bother about waiting dinner! Maisie, you’re playing a dangerous game with me!…”

Business suffered badly during the rest of the day, for Trelawney was quite incapable of diverting his mind from its growing obsession of jealousy, and he snapped furiously at his clerks, till they wisely put away any further important business matters till the following day, when “the boss” might have recovered his usual genial temper. Twice he rang up his home, to discover that no further news had been received of Maisie. Going home through the driving rain in a taxi, he sat glowering out at the wet streets and hurrying crowds, with the black mood riding his shoulders, like the veritable black dog of Maisie’s