When Browne reached the Rue Jacquarie, after his receipt of the letter which had caused him so much pain and consternation, it was to learn that Katherine was not at home, and to find Madame Bernstein in her sitting-room, sniffing vigorously at a bottle of smelling-salts, and on the verge of hysterics. Seeing Browne, she sprang to her feet with a cry that was half one of relief, and half of fear.

“Oh, Monsieur Browne,” said she, “Heaven be praised that you have come! I have had such terrible trouble this morning, and have passed through such a scene with Katherine that my nerves are quite unstrung.”

“Where is Katherine?” Browne inquired almost angrily, and quite ignoring the description of her woes; “and what is the meaning of the letter she wrote me this morning?”

“You must not be angry with her,” said Madame, approaching and laying her hand gently upon his arm, while she looked up into his face, with what was intended to be a piteous expression. “The poor child is only doing what she deems to be right. You would not have her act otherwise, I know.”

“You understand my feelings, I think,” Browne replied bluntly. “At the same time, I know how over-conscientious she is apt to be in such matters. Cannot I see her? Where is she?”

“She has gone out,” said Madame, with a sigh. “She and I, I am sorry to say, had a little disagreement this morning over her treatment of you. I know it was very wrong of me, and that you will hate me for it; but I could not help it. I could not let her spoil her own life and yours without uttering a protest. As a result, she did what she always does — that is to say, she put on her hat and cape, and went for a walk.”

“But have you no notion where I could find her?” asked Browne, who was beginning to feel that everything and everybody were conspiring against him. “Has she any usual haunts, where I should run a moderate chance of coming across her?”

“On that point I am afraid I can say nothing,” answered Madame. “She seldom takes me into her confidence. Yet, stay; I do remember having heard her once say that, when she was put out by anything, the only thing that could soothe her, and set her right again, was a visit to the picture galleries at the Louvre.”

“You are sure you know of no other place?”

“None whatever,” replied the lady. “The pictures at the Louvre are the only things in Paris in which she seems to take any interest. She is insane on the subject.”

“In that case I’ll try the Louvre at once,” said Browne, picking up his hat.

“But let me first explain to you the reason of all that has happened,” said Madame, stretching out her hand as if to detain him.

“Thank you,” Browne returned, with greater coldness than he had ever yet spoken to her; “but, if you do not mind, I would rather hear that from her own lips.”

With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the street once more. From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a ten minutes’ drive at most — that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue de l’Opéra — and yet to Browne it seemed as if he were hours in the cab. On entering the museum he made his way direct to the picture galleries. The building had not been long open, and for this reason only a few people were to be seen in the corridors, a circumstance for which Browne was devoutly thankful. It was not until he reached Room IV. that he knew he was not to have his journey in vain. Standing before Titian’s “Entombment of Christ,” her hands clasped before her, was Katherine. Her whole being seemed absorbed in enjoyment of the picture, and it was not until he was close to her that she turned and saw him. When she did, he noticed that her face was very white and haggard, and that she looked as if she had not slept for many nights.

“Oh, why have you followed me?” she asked piteously.

“I have come to acknowledge in person the letter you sent me this morning,” he answered. “Surely, Katherine, you did not think I should do as you asked me, and go away without even bidding you good-bye?”

“I hoped you would,” she answered, and her lips trembled as she uttered the words.

“Then you do not know me,” he replied, “nor do you know yourself. No, darling; you are my affianced wife, and I refuse to go. What is more, I will not give you up, come what may. Surely you do not think that mine is such a fair-weather love that it must be destroyed by th............