BLAISE was seated at his study table, regarding somewhat dubiously a letter which lay open in front of him.

It was written in a flowing, foreign hand and expressed with a quaintly stilted, un-English turn of phrase. The heading of the notepaper upon which it was inscribed was that of a hotel in Exeter.

     “Dear Mr. Tormarin,” it ran. “You will, without doubt, be
     surprised to receive a letter from me, since we have met
     only once. But I have something of the most great importance
     to confide in you, and I therefore beg that you will accord
     me an interview. When I add to this that the matter
     approaches very closely the future of your fianc茅e, Miss
     Peterson, I do not doubt to myself that you will appoint a
     time when I may call to see you.”
 

The letter was signed M. de Varigny.

Blaise had received this thought-provoking epistle two days previously, and had been impressed by an uncomfortable consciousness that it foreboded something unpleasant. He could not imagine in what manner the affairs of Madame de Varigny impinged upon his own, or rather, as she seemed to imply, upon those of his future wife, and this very uncertainty had impelled him to fix the interview the Countess had demanded at as early a moment as possible. Disagreeables were best met and faced without delay. So now he was momentarily awaiting her arrival, still unable to rid himself of the impression that something of an unpleasant nature impended.

He glanced through the open window, facing him. Afterwards, he was always able to recall every little detail of the picture upon which his eyes rested; it was etched upon his mind as ineffaceably as though cut upon steel with a graver’s tool.

Although the mellow sunlight of September flooded the lawns and terraces, that indescribable change which heralds autumn had already begun to manifest itself. Not that any hint of chill as yet edged the balmy atmosphere or tint of russet reddened the gently waving foliage of the trees. It was something less definite—a suggestion of maturity, of completed ripening, conveyed by the deep, rich green of the grass, the strong, woody growth of the trees, the full-blown glory of the roses nodding on their stems.

To the left, in the shade of a stately cedar, Lady Anne and Jean were encamped with their sewing and writing materials at hand, and the rays of sunshine, filtering between the widespread branches above them, woke fugitive gold and silver lights in the down-bent auburn and white-crowned heads. Further away, in the valley below, the brown smudge of a wide-bottomed boat broke the smooth expanse of the lake whence the mingled laughter of Nick and Claire came floating up on the breeze.

It was a peaceful scene, full of intimate happiness and tender promises, and Blaise watched it with contented eyes. The voice of Baines, formal and urbane, roused him from a pleasant reverie.

“Madame de Varigny,” announced that functionary, throwing open the door and standing aside for the visitor to enter.

Blaise rose courteously to greet her, holding out his hand. But the Countess shook her head.

“No, I will not shake hands,” she said abruptly. “When you know why I am come, you will not want to shake hands with me.”

There was something not unattractive about the outspoken refusal to sail under false colours, more especially softened, as it was, by the charm of the faintly foreign accent and intonation.

Madame de Varigny had paused a moment in the middle of the room and was regarding her host with curiously appraising eyes, and as Blaise returned her gaze he was conscious, as once before at the fancy-dress ball at Montavan, of the strange sense of familiarity this woman had for him.

“I am sorry for that,” he said, answering her refusal to shake hands. “Won’t you, at least, sit down?” pulling forward a chair.

“Yes, I will sit.”

She sank into the chair with the quick, graceful motion of the South, and continued to regard Blaise watchfully between the thick fringes of her lashes. Had Jean been present, she would have been struck anew by the expression of implacability which hardened the dark-brown eyes. By that, and by something else as well—a look of unmistakable triumph.

“I have much—much to say to you, Monsieur Tor-ma-rin,” she began at last. “I will commence by telling you a little about myself. I am”—here she looked away for an instant, then shot a swift, penetrating glance at him—“an Italian by birth.”

A brief silence followed this announcement. Blaise was thinking concentratedly. So Madame de Varigny, despite her French name and her French mannerisms, was an Italian! He might have guessed it had the possibility ever definitely presented itself to him—guessed it from those broad, high cheek bones, those liquid, southern-dark eyes, and the coarse, blue-black hair. Yet, except for one fleeting moment at Montavan, the idea had never occurred to him, and it had then been swiftly dissipated by Jean’s explanation that the impressive-looking Cleopatra was the Comtesse de Varigny and her chaperon for the time being.

Italian! Blaise felt more convinced than ever now that Madame de Varigny’s visit portended unpleasant developments. Something, a voice from the past, was about to break stridently on the peaceful present. He braced himself to meet and counter whatever might be coming. Vaguely he foresaw some kind of blackmail, and he thanked Heaven for Jean’s absolute understanding and complete knowledge of the past and of all that appertained to his first unhappy marriage. There would be little foothold here for an attempt at blackmail, however skilfully worked, he reflected grimly.

He therefore responded civilly to Madame de Varigny’s statement, apparently accepting it at its mere face value.

“I am surprised,” he told her. “You have altogether the air of a Parisian.”

The Countess smiled.

“Oh, I had a French grandmother,” she returned carelessly. “Also, I have lived much in Paris.”

“Ah! that explains it,” replied Tormarin, leaning back in his chair as though satisfied. “It’s the influence of environment and heredity, I expect.”

He was fencing carefully, waiting for the woman to show her hand.

“I have also Corsican blood in my veins,” pursued Madame de Varigny. Then, as Tormarin made no answer, she leaned forward and said intently: “Do you know the characteristic of the Corsicans, Monsieur Tor-ma-rin? They never forget—nevaire”—her foreign accent increasing, as usual, with emotion of any kind. “The Corsican always repays.”

“Yes? And you have something to repay? Is that it?”

“Yes. I have something to repay.”

“A revenge, in fact?”

“She shook her head.

“No. I do not call it revenge. It is punishment—the just punishment earned by the man who married Nesta Freyne and brought her in return nothing but misery.” Tormarin rose abruptly.

“What have the affairs of Nesta Freyne to do with you?” he asked sternly. “As you are obviously aware, she was my wife. And I do not propose to discuss private personal matters with an entire stranger.” He moved towards the door. “I think our interview can very well terminate at that. I do not wish to forget that I am your host.”

“You are more than that,” said Madame de Varigny suavely. “You are my brother-in-law.”

“What?” Tormarin swung ’round and faced her.

“Yes.” The suavity was gone now, replaced by a curious deadly precision of utterance, enhanced by the foreign rendering of syllabic values. “I am—or was, until my marriage—Margherita Valdi. I am Nesta’s sister.”

Tormarin regarded her steadily.

“In that case,” he said, “I will hear what you have to say. Though I don’t think,” he added, “that any good can come of raking up the past. It is better—forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Madame de Varigny seized upon the unlucky word. “Yes—it may be easy enough for you to forget—you who took Nesta’s young, beautiful life and crushed it; you who came like a thief and stole from me the one creature in the whole world whom I loved—my bambina, my little sister. Oh, yes”—her voice rose passionately—“easy enough when there is another woman—a new love—with whom you think to start your life all over again! But I tell you, you shall not! There shall be no new beginning for you—no marriage with this Jean Peterson to whom you are now fianc茅. I forbid it—I——”

Blaise stemmed the torrent of her speech with an authoritative gesture.

“May I ask how the news of my engagement reached you?” he asked, his cool, dispassionate question falling like a hailstone dropped into some molten stream of lava.

“Oh, I have kept watch. I have the means of knowing. There is very little that has happened to you since—since I wrote to yo............