LITMIR.BIZ

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"I remember now! Jack had just stepped up into a big cupboard which forms one side of the little room. He came out again just as Miss Burton and--and your son had gone on upstairs." Again she reddened uncomfortably, wondering if this nice, kind girl had heard Jack's unflattering epithets concerning "the young American cub." But no, Jack's voice, if angry, had been low.

      When they were at the bottom of the staircase the Senator turned to his daughter.

      "Daisy," he said quietly, "I think it will be best for this lady to see Madame Poulain with me alone." And as his daughter showed no sign of having understood, he said again, with a touch of severity in his voice: "Daisy, I desire you to go upstairs."

      "You'll bring Mrs. Dampier up again, father?"

      He hesitated--and then he said, "Yes, should she wish it, I will do so."

      And Daisy Burton turned away, up the stairs again, very reluctantly. Her indulgent father was not given to interfere with even the most casual of her friendships, and she already felt as if this attractive young Englishwoman was to be her friend.

      Madame Poulain came slowly across the courtyard, and the Senator was struck by her look of ill-health, of languor. Clearly the worthy woman was overtaxing her strength. It was foolish of the Poulains not to have more help in, but French people were like that!

      Senator Burton knew that these good folks were trying to amass as large a dowry as possible for their adored only child. Virginie was now of marriageable age, and the Poulains had already selected in their own minds the man they wished to see their son-in-law. He was owner of an hotel at Chantilly, and as he was young, healthy, and reputed kind and good-tempered, he had the right to expect a good dowry with his future wife. The fact that this was an Exhibition Year was a great stroke of luck for the Poulains. It almost certainly meant that their beloved Virginie would soon be settled close to them in charming salubrious Chantilly....

      The proprietress of the Hôtel Saint Ange now stood close to Senator Burton and his companion. Her voluble tongue was stilled for once: she was twisting a corner of her blue check apron round and round in her strong, sinewy-looking fingers.

      "Well, Madame Poulain," the American spoke very gravely, "there has evidently been some strange misunderstanding. This lady asserts most positively that she arrived here last night accompanied by her husband, Mr. Dampier."

      A look of--was it anger or pain?--came over Madame Poulain's face. She shook her head decidedly. "I have already told monsieur," she said quickly, "that this lady arrived here last night alone. I know nothing of her husband: I did not even know she was married. To tell you the truth, monsieur, we ought to have made her fill in the usual form. But it was so late that we put off the formality till to-day. I now regret very much that we did so."

      The Senator looked questioningly at Nancy Dampier. She had become from red very white. "Do you understand what she says?" he asked slowly, impassively.

      "Yes--I understand. But she is not telling the truth."

      The Senator hesitated. "I have known Madame Poulain a long time," he said.

      "Yes--and you've only known me a few minutes."

      Nancy Dampier felt as though she were living through a horrible nightmare--horrible and at the same time absurd. But she made a great effort to remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman. So she added quietly: "I can't tell--I can't in the least guess--why this woman is telling such a strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth of what I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name is John Dampier. He is an artist, and has a studio here in Paris."

      "Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"

      "Of course I do." The question stung her, this time past endurance. "I think I had better have a cab and drive there straight," she said stiffly. "Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage all right by myself now."

      Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened, hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of concern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl--she looked even younger than his daughter--pretend that she had come here accompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?

      Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no very pleasant expression on her face.

      "Well," she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieur le Sénateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse us of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrived with a man--as to that I say nothing--but I assert most positively that in that case he left her before she actually came into the Hôtel Saint Ange."

      "Will you please ask her to call me a cab?" said Nancy trembling.

      And he transmitted the request; adding kindly in English, "Of course I am coming with you as far as your husband's studio. I expect we shall find that Mr. Dampier went there last night. The Poulains have forgotten that he came with you: you see they are very tired and overworked just now--"

      But Nancy shook her head. It was impossible that the Poulains should have forgotten Jack.

      Madame Poulain went a step nearer to Senator Burton and muttered something, hurriedly. He hesitated.

      "Mais si, Monsieur le Sénateur."

      And very reluctantly he transmitted the woman's disagreeable message. "She thinks that perhaps as you are going to your husband's rooms, you had better take your trunk with you, Mrs. Dampier."

      Nancy assented, almost eagerly. "Yes, do ask her to have my trunk brought down! I would far rather not come back here." She was still quite collected and quiet in her manner. "But, Mr. Burton, hadn't I better pay? Especially if they persist in saying I came alone?" she smiled, a tearful little smile. It still seemed so--so absurd.

      She took out her purse. "I haven't much money, for you see Jack always pays everything. But I've got an English sovereign, and I can always draw a cheque. I have my own money."

      And the Senator grew more and more bewildered. It was clear that this girl was either speaking the truth, or else that she was a most wonderful actress. But, as every man who has reached the Senator's age is ruefully aware, very young women can act on occasion in ordinary every day life, as no professional actress of genius ever did or ever will do on a stage.

      Madame Poulain went off briskly, and when she came back a few moments later, there was a look of relief, almost of joy, on her face. "The cab is here," she exclaimed, "and Jules has brought down madame's trunk."

      Nancy looked at the speaker quickly. Then she was "madame" again? Well, that was something.

      "Three francs--that will quite satisfy us," said Madame Poulain, handing over the change for her English sovereign. It was a gold napoleon and a two-franc piece. For the first time directly addressing Mrs. Dampier, "There has evidently been a mistake," she said civilly. "No doubt monsieur left madame at the door, and went off to his studio last night. I expect madame will find monsieur there, quite safe and sound."

      Senator Burton, well as he believed himself to be acquainted with his landlady, would have been very much taken aback had he visioned what followed his own and Mrs. Dampier's departure from the Hôtel Saint Ange.

      Madame Poulain remained at the door of the porte cochère till the open carriage turned the corner of the narrow street. Then she looked at her nephew.

      "How much did she give you?" she asked roughly. And the young man reluctantly opened a grimy hand and showed a two franc piece.

      She snatched it from him, and motioned him back imperiously towards the courtyard.

      After he had gone quite out of sight she walked quickly up the little street till she came to a low, leather-bound door which gave access to the church whose fine buttress bestowed such distinction on the otherwise rather sordid Rue Saint Ange. Pushing open the door she passed through into the dimly-lit side aisle where stood the Lady Altar.

      This old church held many memories for Madame Poulain. It was here that Virginie had been christened, here that there

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