The Black Virgin

LAIRE came down the long cypress avenue, at the end of which was the queer little building, half farmhouse, half villa, in which Cardinge, having brought his negotiations to a successful issue, had taken up his residence. She was bareheaded and dressed for the evening in a gown of some filmy white material. Once or twice she stopped to pluck some of the colored orchises growing in the long grass of the orchard, and though the turf was dry she had to pick her way to avoid soiling her satin shoes. Cardinge came to meet her silently.

“Why do you look at me as though I were a vision?” she laughed, as he almost reached her without any sign of recognition.

“You reminded me of 'Maud,'” he answered. “I was thinking of the days when I was very young.”

“Stupid!” she exclaimed, thrusting her arm through his. “You're very young now—but very dirty. What have you been doing?”

“Showing some of my lazy Italians how to dig trenches,” he replied, smiling. “I am in rather a state, aren't I?”

“Do you know what you have to do?” she asked.

“Wash, presently.”

“More than that. You have to put on your nice dinner clothes and come up to the villa for dinner.”

“A royal command?”

“Madam insists. You can perhaps guess what has happened. Another Virgin has arrived.”

“Who is it this time, I wonder?” he inquired.

She shook her head.

“I was introduced, but the name sounded like a firecracker. He is fat, beaming, and prosperous. Also, I should imagine, Teutonic.”

“I wonder if, by any chance, it is Reinhardt,” Cardinge muttered.

“'Reinhardt,' associated with a fantastic Christian name, it might very well be,” she admitted. “The great thing is, however, that you have about a quarter of an hour to change. I shall come and sit on your piazza and enjoy your gorgeous view.”

HEY had returned to the house by this time, the front of which faced southeast, and looked over the broad, fruitful valley of vineyards, cornfields, and olive groves, mounting on the other side to the village of St. Paulos. Cardinge arranged a chair for his visitor and hurried up to his room. He splashed about for a few moments in the flat sponge bath, left for him twice a day in an empty room leading out of his own, dressed, with that slight irrelevance which a man who has been used to have all things arranged for him generally displays when left to his own resources, and finally made his apologies to a fat, brown lady in the kitchen—apologies which, by the bye, were received most ungraciously.

“Behold,” she exclaimed, pointing to the grate, “the dinner of monsieur three parts cooked. What is to be done? Had I but known half an hour before!”

“But it is only within ten minutes that I have received the message, Marie,” her master expostulated. “Eat the dinner yourself this evening—you and the good man Jean.”

The wife of Jean was indignant.

“Such food for us!” she scoffed. “Of all things the most ridiculous. Jean would drink too much wine and go off to the village. One must do what one can,” she wound up, snatching the pots from the fire.

Cardinge and Claire walked slowly down the avenue, across the strip of dusty road and along a winding path—a short cut through the grounds to the villa.

“How go things, Mr. Farmer?” Claire inquired.

“Well enough,” he confided. “I sent sixty baskets of flowers and vegetables away to-day, and the vines look promising. I need a larger market, though, for my eggs.”

“I will try and eat two every morning, instead of one,” she promised.

“The villa is already my best private customer,” he told her. 'Don't imperil your digestion for my sake, I beg.”

“It isn't my digestion I'm afraid of, it's getting fat,” she confessed.

He glanced at her with an admiration which he tried to conceal. She was tall and slim, with the easy grace of an athletic figure, and yet with a certain stateliness in her movements. The clear sunburn of health had played no havoc with her complexion. Her eyes were thoughtful.

“It's a queer life for you here, child,” he declared a little abruptly.

“You have said that before,” she remarked. “Why queer? From the moment I wake in the morning to the moment I go to sleep at night I am surrounded by beautiful things. What can there be more wonderful than that?”

“You should have more friends,” he argued. “Friends of your own age.”

“I have Armand,” she reminded him, “who is quite reasonable sometimes, and you, who are delightful always.”

“I am not of your own age,” he objected, a little harshly. “I belong to the generation of your elders.”

“Really? I never look upon you as such. To me you are just—well, the companion I like to have, when you're not grumpy, and do leave off imagining that you're first cousin to Methuselah. How old are you, Hugh?”

“How dare you ask me such a question?” he protested.

“Well, I don't believe you're so old as you pretend,” she persisted. “I don't believe you're a day more than thirty-seven. I'm twenty, and there should be twelve years' difference between a man and a woman to make for companionship. Therefore, you're four or five years older than I am. What's four or five years, Hugh?”

ER eyes sought his, filled with an appeal to which he remained adamant. He set his teeth hard.

“That murky past of yours again, I suppose,” she sighed. “Why you should worry about it so much, I can't imagine. We all seem to be criminals in our little set. And, as for Armand, I should think in intent and disposition he's the biggest criminal of all. You will tell me what you do with the fat man, won't you, Hugh?”

“It's Madame who makes the plans,” he reminded her. “However, I'll give you a hint if I can. Where is he?”

“Changing,” the girl replied. “He brought a dressing-case with him. I have a feeling that he will be very magnificent.... No one down yet,” she added, looking along the piazza. “I raced into my things, so as to be able to come and fetch you. Wait here, and I'll let Madame know of my success.”

She left him alone for a moment. He wandered to the little bower of roses behind which Madame's chair was generally concealed, took up a magazine and glanced at it. Suddenly he turned round at the sound of advancing footsteps. A fat man came lumbering along the piazza—a man with much flesh, yet also a strong man. There was power in his movements, elasticity in his frame. His abundant gray and brown hair was well brushed, his little mustache straight and spiky. His dress coat was ornamented by a velvet collar, his white tie was very large, his pearl stud immense. His trousers were short and displayed black silk socks with light blue clocks. His patent shoes shone.

AVE I perhaps the happiness to find an old comrade?” he asked.

Then he stopped short. He was face to face with Cardinge, only a few feet away, and Cardinge was looking at him intently. No further word passed between the two men for seconds. The newcomer produced a large white cambric handkerchief and dabbed his forehead nervously.

“I thought you were dead,” he muttered.

“So do most other people,” Cardinge rejoined. “You had better go on thinking so. Do you understand?”

“You mean here—Madame and the several others?”

Cardinge nodded.

“No one knows,” he said.

“The silence,” Reinhardt mumbled, “may be mutual.”

“It shall,” Cardinge promised. “But what a hell of a nerve you've got to come here!”

Reinhardt sat down. He was beginning to feel more at his ease. Besides, in the room behind, he could hear the clink of ice, which seemed to establish his presence reassuringly in the haunts of civilization.

“I do not know about that,” he protested. “An oath is a great thing. The summons called me. In the old days to have disobeyed it would have been equivalent to death. Besides, I seek my quittance.”

“I see,” Cardinge murmured.

“While we're upon the subject,” Reinhardt continued, “I trust that Madame realizes the altered conditions under which we now meet. I have no longer the figure nor the ardor of youth. To undress a gendarme and throw him into the fountain would be to-day a prank of which I should be incapable.”

“Madame has common sense,” Cardinge assured him coldly, with grim distaste.

Madame came silently out to them, as imperturbable and mysterious as ever. She gave them her hand which each man in turn raised to his lips.

Then she sank into her chair.

“Even Otto has found his way here,” she observed. “It is a sublime act of fidelity.”

“Madame, it is my tribute to the power you have always exercised over your slaves,” Reinhardt declared.

Dinner was announced a few minutes later. It was served, as usual, luxuriously and with great care for detail. The glass and silver shone in subdued splendor. The wines and food were the best the country could afford. In the center of the table was an inset glass bowl, lit by tiny electric lights—a bowl, floating in the waters of which were great clusters of cut roses. A butler and two footmen waited with noiseless efficiency. Armand, who had come in late and confessed to having lost money at baccarat at Nice, ate and drank in sulky silence. Reinhardt was exceedingly careful in the topics of conversation which he introduced. Madame declined to allow any embarrassment, however, as to his nationality.

“Tell me how they receive you when you travel,” she insisted. “Has the world changed yet? Do they dance to your music at the restaurants, the hotels, and the shops?”

“Madame,” Reinhardt acknowledged frankly, “I call myself an Austrian. As such I am welcomed everywhere. Why this should be so,” he added, with a momentary note of bitterness, “no sane being could determine. Of all the nations in the war, Austria's exhibition was the most contemptible. Yet they are forgiven, while we, who had at least our heroic moments, are still unpopular.”

“The Austrians possess more social graces,” Madame pointed out.

“They had no burden of atrocities to carry on their back,” Cardinge observed drily. “It was not even clear that they desired war.”

Reinhardt became discreet.

“These matters,” he pronounced, “do not lend themselves to profitable discussion.

After dinner Reinhardt planted himself stolidly before Madame. He held his coffee cup in one hand, his cigar and liqueur brandy were near by.

“Madame,” he said, “I received your summons. I am here.”

“Very much here,” Madame agreed. “You have grown very large, Otto Reinhardt.”

“I am still active,” he replied. “My size does not incommode me. I allude to the fact that I am here at Madame's commands. What service can I render her?”

“You desire your quittance?”

“I do, indeed,” he assured her earnestly. “The episode of which you possess a brief written narration is of slight import in itself but, for various reasons, just now its publication would mean ruin.”

“I am glad that you are frank,” Madame commented coldly. “How do you desire to obtain possession of this quittance? By service or payment?”

“Madame,” Reinhardt said, “compared with the majority of my country people I happen to be a rich and prosperous man. If a payment is necessary before I receive my quittance, I will make it. Service, I fear, will be more difficult. I have lost my taste for the irregular. I have taken my place among the sedate ones of the earth.”

“Money,” Madame rejoined, “I do not accept. Service of a sort I expect. What your task may be you shall know within a few hours. I can assure you that you will not find it beyond your powers.”

“You will understand,” Reinhardt persisted, “that it is not my desire, especially at the present moment, to run counter to the law.”

“I understand also,” she replied with a touch of sarcasm, “that you desire your quittance.

EINHARDT spent an uneasy evening. Madame and Cardinge were talking together for some time, and he was very well aware that he was the subject of their conversation. It interested him little to converse with Claire. The ingénue in his own country or any other was of no interest to him. What he did desire to feel in his possession was that envelop with the black seal, of which he had thought many times. So long as it was in existence the great aim of his life would be a hazardous adventure. It was his ambition to be the first ambassador of his country to France.

That night no relief was afforded him. Madame bade him good night at a somewhat early hour, and her manner did not encourage any further questioning on his part. Cardinge departed soon afterwards, and, in any case, to be alone with Cardinge was the last thing he desired. He was left in charge of Armand, who, ascertaining that there was no two-handed game of cards in which he cared to indulge, promptly lost interest in him. There seemed to be nothing left to him but to drink a bottle of beer—procured with some difficulty—and to go to bed.

“Service, not money,” he muttered to himself, as he undressed and reflected upon the luxury of his surroundings. “I do not like the sound of it. Still, one must remember that they do not yet know how rich I am.”

He found his bag unpacked and his flannel pajamas lying in readiness for him, in strange juxtaposition to the apple-green silk coverlet, the linen sheets, and embroidered pillow- slip. He undressed gloomily, closed all the windows and went to bed.

HE latest visitor to the villa was called and escorted to his bath in the morning by a capable young man-servant who informed him that coffee would be served upon the piazza at half-past eight. When he descended he found a little table set for one. On it was a note addressed to him in Madame's penciled handwriting. He tore it open. It contained the briefest of messages.

Reinhardt drank his very good coffee, which he much appreciated, and ate his rolls and butter and preserved cherries with appetite. There was a shadow upon his face. A whole day with Cardinge was the last thing in the world he desired—a long day, apparently, for he had scarcely lit his cigar and leaned back to enjoy the beauty of the morning when Cardinge, in a little two-seated car, came skimming up the avenue. Reinhardt looked at the vehicle doubtfully and at Cardinge with trepidation. His worst fears were speedily realized.

“Get a coat if you think you'll need it,” Cardinge enjoined. “We may be going some distance.”

“In that?” Reinhardt asked, looking gloomily at the vacant seat by Cardinge's side.

“In this,” was the equable reply. “Better get a coat if you're likely to feel the cold. I drive fast and we shall be going into the mountains.”

The prospective passenger turned and made his way back to his room. He foresaw a thoroughly unpleasant day.

URSE you and your car!” were Reinhardt's first intelligible words, as he staggered down to the little strip of white road.

Cardinge smiled mirthlessly as he shut off his engine. This was not an enterprise which appealed to him.

“Sorry you don't like us,” he remarked briefly. “It isn't every thirty horse-power car would bring you up seven thousand feet without a pause.”

“We might have been killed a score of times at those corners,” Reinhardt declared angrily.

His companion stretched himself and descended.

“I couldn't help the fact that we were on the outside all the way coming up,” he observed. “You'll be more comfortable going down.”

“And now we're here, where are we?” his unwilling passenger demanded.

Cardinge indicated the panorama below with a sweep of his hand.

“You are enjoying, or you should be enjoying, one of the most beautiful views in Europe,” he pointed out. “The silver streak in the distance is the Mediterranean. That medieval-looking fortress to the right is Grasse. This is the village of St. Joseph—the highest point on the road. And we are going to pay a visit to the Château St Joseph,” he added, ringing a bell which hung down in the great stone portico before which they had halted.

“Does any sane man live up here?” Reinhardt growled.

“This château,” Cardinge told him, “is the home of the great family of de Montercey—the Marquis de Montercey lives here now. We're going to call upon him.”

“Why?” Reinhardt inquired suspiciously.

“The answer to that question will present itself shortly,” Cardinge replied drily.

A porter in ancient but well-preserved livery admitted them in due course. He received Cardinge's card with a bow.

“Monsieur le Marquis is expecting you, monsieur,” he announced. “If you will have the goodness to follow me.”

They passed out of a courtyard and stepped through a postern door into the lower of two terraced gardens. Even Reinhardt gave vent to a little exclamation of wonder as they stood for a moment looking about them. The gardens themselves were not large, the ground fell away precipitously on either side, but they were beautifully kept, and on the summit the château, with its round towers at either end, its gray front still in wonderful repair, notwithstanding its great age, seemed to appear out of space, with an unreality almost fantastic. The stone-flagged walks—crumbling and cracked with age—were flanked with roses, wonderfully luxuriant considering the altitude. There were great clumps of verbena, heliotrope, and many sweet-scented flowers. Orange trees were in blossom in the more sheltered places and there was a little grove of olive trees behind the wall. Seated about, some on the ancient benches and some in long chairs, were a score or so of men, all clad alike, but strangely. Here and there among them, a nurse was seated talking or moving about.

“What the devil is this?” Reinhardt demanded. “A hospital?”

Cardinge shook his head.

“It is one of the most famous châteaux of France,” he answered. “The Marquis, however, is a very unhappy man. He lost three sons in the war. For their sakes, he entertains here a score of invalids. Can you guess what is the matter with these men, Reinhard?”

“They look like consumptives,” was the muttered reply.

ARDINGE led him on, spoke to one of the nurses, who welcomed him as an habitué, and exchanged a few words with some of the patients. Then he turned back to his companion.

“They are scarcely consumptives,” he explained, “although there is not one of these men with sound lungs. They are the victims of that accursed device of your country people which destroyed the chivalry of war for all time. They are suffering from poison gas.”

“You used it yourselves,” Reinhardt retorted.

“After you had invented it,” Cardinge reminded him. “Just glance round at these poor fellows. There is not one of them who will ever know again the real joy of living, not one of them who could probably even live in any other climate. They weren't killed with man's joy of battle in their blood and the knowledge that they were fighting for the great things that make death splendid. They were just the victims of a horrible and debased science, made to live on like this—men still but without the heart and blood of men.”

“Why have you brought me here to see them?” Reinhardt demanded.

“That you shall know in good time,” Cardinge replied. “At present I'm going to take you inside. Your appearance is a little against you, Reinhardt. Some of them are looking at you as though they knew. We will go and visit Monsieur le Marquis.”

HEY passed into the château. The great doors stood wide open. Inside was a wonderful wall, extending almost to the roof—a wall hung with tapestries and somber paintings. A servant came forward to greet them.

“Ask if Monsieur le Marquis will receive me with the person whom he is expecting,” Cardinge begged.

“Monsieur le Marquis expects you, monsieur,” the man announced, leading the way.

They followed him into a very beautiful room with groined arches, a a stained-glass window at the further end, below which was built what seemed to be a shrine. Upon a dais adjoining and covered with a white cloth were three swords. The room was scantily furnished, but had an air of severe and soldierly dignity. There were only one or two paintings upon the bare walls, and another small shrine, beneath which was a bowl of white roses. A man who had been writing at a table rose slowly to his feet as his two visitors entered. He was thin and not very tall. His hair was perfectly white. His eyes were kindly and his mouth seemed almost the mouth of a woman. As he looked behind Cardinge, however, its lines grew suddenly hard and firm.

“You are welcome, Monsieur Cardinge,” he said, shaking hands.

Cardinge turned to Reinhardt.

“I shall not present you, Monsieur le Marquis, to my companion,” he announced, “but I will tell you that his name is Reinhardt. I have brought him here for the purpose you know of.”

The Marquis looked at Reinhardt. The action appeared to require some self-control.

“You have seen my poor patients?” he inquired.

“I have seen them,” admitted. Reinhardt “I am very sorry for them. The war has brought great misery to many people.”

“Our friend, as you see, is sympathetic,” Cardinge observed. “Sympathy may be expressed in many ways. Monsieur Reinhardt has not much heart, but he has a very long purse.”

“Wealth is sometimes strangely directed,” the Marquis murmured.

“But for the state of terror in which my companion found himself during our journey here,” Cardinge continued, “I should have given him a hint as to its object. However, that makes very little difference. Monsieur le Marquis, Reinhardt, has lost his three sons during the war and has devoted the remainder of his life to taking care of those who suffered as they suffered but whose lives were spared. Monsieur le Marquis' three sons died of gas-poisoning.”

'It is most regrettable,” Reinhardt muttered.

“Monsieur le Marquis' whole income,” Cardinge proceeded, “goes to the support of these poor fellows. It is not sufficient. He has a small grant from the French Government. Other friends—Madame among them—have been privileged to subscribe. I have told him that he will find in you a very generous sympathizer. You have your check-book with you, probably.”

“Yes,” Reinhardt admitted sullenly.

“Monssieur le Marquis will accept in the cause of charity,” Cardinge concluded, “the sum of five hundred thousand francs. That sum was fixed by Madame.”

EINHARDT opened his lips. He looked first at the Marquis and turned away with a little shiver. Then he looked at Cardinge and his fingers began to shake. There was something in the atmosphere of the room—its somber stillness, the perfume from that bowl of white roses—which seemed suddenly terrifying. He drew the check-book from his pocket. The Marquis motioned to Cardinge, who placed pen and ink before his companion. The check was written, signed, and the ink blotted. Cardinge placed it in an envelop.

“Address it, if you please,” the Marquis begged, “to my bank, the Société Générale at Grasse. It is for my poor fellows but—”

“I understand,” Cardinge interrupted. “You shall not touch it, sir. Remember it is an act of justice.”

Reinhardt gripped at his companion's arm.

“Well,” he exclaimed harshly, “if this is what you brought me here for—if this is what I have to pay for my quittance—I have done it. Get me out of this place. I'm ill.”

Cardinge and the Marquis shook hands.

“I think,” the former said, “the sooner I take him away the better.” The Marquis made no reply. He kept his face averted from the man he loathed. They passed out, across what seemed to Reinhardt, the nightmare hall, into the nightmare gardens, where many pairs of burning eyes seemed to be seeking his, where more than one of those strangely garbed men seemed to be making vain efforts to rise to his feet as he passed, where hate flashed from the eyes of the white-capped nurses, whispering to their charges. The porter threw open the gate and they passed out. Reinhardt's hands clasped his forehead as they stood in the little strip of dusty road. Opposite was a café. He stumbled toward it.

OWNWARDS in ever widening circles they glided, from the crisp champagne-like air of the mountains, into the mellow warmth of the sun—lit valleys below. As they left the château behind Reinhardt recovered himself. Half-way down he lit a cigar.

“Well,” he said, “you have made me pay a stiff price for my quittance. A little theatrical, too. Why couldn't I have written you a check down on your balcony?”

“You have not enjoyed your visit to the château?” Cardinge inquired politely,

“I have hated it like poison,” was the frank rejoinder.

“Precisely. It is for that reason that I took you. A few minutes of personal suffering sometimes hurts more than a slight depletion of one's banking account.”

“Shall I be able to catch the night train from Nice?” Reinhardt demanded.

“It will be for Madame to say,” Cardinge replied.

Madame listened to an account of their excursion into the mountains, silent and imperturbable. Reinhardt, in whom the bully had arisen again, fortified by an excellent luncheon and much old brandy, was disposed to be loquacious.

“Look here,” he announced, “I don't want any more of this theatrical business—motoring up into the clouds on two wheels and pressed to endow hospitals. A pretty good thing that Marquis of yours makes out of it, I know. Anyway I've paid—half a million francs, too—money that takes earning in Germany to-day. I want my quittance, and so to Nice.”

ADAME stretched out her fingers and plucked a rose. She sniffed it for a moment with half-closed eyes.

“You will be relieved, will you not, Otto Reinhardt, when that quittance is in your hands?”

“Why not?” he answered bluntly. “We're all criminals, or were. Why shouldn't I be glad to bury my little indiscretion?”

“We were all criminals in those days,” Madame admitted, “more or less. But we were not spies.”

“You have read my confession!” he exclaimed.

“I read every one,” Madame replied coolly. “Most of them I set myself sedulously to forget. Yours I have never forgotten. You accepted the hospitality of France to spy against her.”

“I obeyed orders.”

“Your day by day life,” Madame continued, “was a fraud. Your friendship to France was a pretense. These things are hard to forgive.”

“It is finished,” he muttered. “Give me my quittance.

Madame shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“You must remember, if you please,” she said, “that that does not come to you as a right, but rather as an act of grace. When I think of your life in Paris at the time of your association with us, I am angry. Day by day you were 'hail fellow well met' with everybody, and at night you wrote your reports to the German Government. Then came war. You did well out of the war, Reinhardt.”

“Other people made fortunes beside myself,” he answered sullenly.

“Other people,” Madame remarked, “will have more chance of keeping them. I have a list here” (she stretched out her hands, drew a slip of paper from a box by her side) “of seven societies formed in France to alleviate the very grievous distress caused by the war. I have put your name down as subscriber to each of one million francs.”

Reinhardt laughed harshly.

“You are mad,” he exclaimed.

“On the contrary,” Madame assured him. “I have given especial care to the matter. So far as my information goes the payment of these sums will absorb half of your fortune. It will leave you still a rich man and without that fear, which must surely sometimes haunt you, of having your back to a wall and the bandage over your eyes.”

“I decline,” Reinhardt declared furiously. “That is all there is to say about it. You understand? I decline. You can keep my quittance.”

Madame smiled.

“That,” she said, “is very unwise. The Chef de Sûreté at Nice is a particular friend of mine. I have asked him to send me a trusted man from his office—who, by the bye, is now reading in the garden. He imagines that I am only on the track of a robber, but what do you think would give the French police more satisfaction than to lay their hands on Otto Reinhardt—the man who spied on them for three years and whose name, in their statute book, is, I believe, 'Max Milan'?”

Reinhardt collapsed. He seemed to have shrunk within his clothes—to have become a smaller and a stricken man.

“Don't mention that name,” he begged feverishly.

Madame smiled.

“Then sit up and ask yourself how long it will take you to deposit that money at the Société Générale at Nice.”

“I should have to return to Germany,” he groaned, looking down at the carpet.

“That would not be advisable,” Madame replied. “My nephew here will act as your messenger. He is a young man of great discretion. You can have every confidence in him. The moment I hear that he has the money and is on French soil, you shall be welcome to go where you will. Until then you will be my guest.”

Again Reinhardt looked down at the carpet and again Madame read his thoughts.

“My friend, the Chef de Sûreté has been exceedingly kind to me in this matter,” she confided. “Although, if he knew what you were, nothing that I could do or say would prevent your arrest, he is willing to believe that you are simply a person I suspect of planning a robbery here. He is content to leave the matter of collecting evidence entirely in my hands, and yet have you watched day and night. If you try to escape, Otto Reinhardt, it will be 'Max Milan'—they would capture.”

The baffled man sat still for several minutes biting his nails, looking sometimes out of the window, sometimes up at the ceiling. Opposite to him, like a figure of fate in her calm and absolute self-possession, sat Madame. Reinhardt was fond of his money, but he was fonder of his life.

“If half the amount,” he began—

Madame closed her eyes wearily.

“Have you ever known me to bargain about money or life or anything that counts?” she asked.

“It will take time to realize such an outrageous amount,” he pointed out.

“There is no limit to our hospitality,” she assured him ironically.

Armand returned on the ninth day and Otto Reinhardt received his quittance. He burned it out on the piazza, and remained there until the gray ashes had all floated away. Afterwards he took leave of no one. Madame, leaning a little on Cardinge's shoulder, watched him climb into the automobile and drive off without a backward glance.

“The only one of my Virgins, Hugh,” she sighed, “of whom I've been really and honestly ashamed.”