Madeline—I wish you to do me a favour?’

‘And that is, Monsieur———?’

‘To wear to-night the satin dress and the pearl ornaments which I gave to you three weeks ago.’

Belleisle was standing before his wife, buttoning the kid gloves which reached almost to her elbow; for she was ready to take her usual morning drive with Madame de Fontenay. The girl allowed him to finish his task, then she spoke.

‘Why is it you wish me to wear that dress, Monsieur?’

‘Because, chérie, we shall have a new guest.’

‘Indeed?’

‘A young French nobleman—whom, if we wish to stand well in society, it is our interest to fascinate.’

‘To fascinate!’

The ejaculation made Belleisle look sharply into his wife’s face. He was by no means pleased by what he saw there. He opened his lips to speak, but was prevented by the entrance of Madame de Fontenay.

The widow, dressed as usual in rich widow’s mourning, came quickly into the room, and took Madeline’s gloved hand in hers.

‘A thousand apologies for having kept you waiting,’ she said. ‘Come, my child—Emile, be good enough to see us to the carriage, which has already waited some minutes at the door.’

Belleisle, obedient to the command, conducted the ladies down the oak staircase of the hotel, handed them into the carriage which waited to receive them, and stood bare-headed at the door to see it roll away. He smiled, waved his hand and kissed the tips of his fingers—but Madeline, to whom these blandishments were cast, had already sunk back into the carriage, and relapsed into a gloomy dream.

She had a good deal to think about—much to try and explain to herself—and she had chosen this time as the best for what she had to do.

They had been located in Paris for three months now, and during that time she had led a life which puzzled even herself. Gentle and confiding, guided wholly by her husband and his accomplice, she had carried out their wishes in every respect. She had dressed herself in the fine dresses which were brought to her—driven about in a carriage by the side of her soi-disant mother, and behaved as she had been taught to the guests whom she met at her husband’s table.

It was the behaviour of these guests which troubled her and first set her speculating as to the kind of life into which she had unwittingly been led. She was not astonished that they should court her favours, for when she announced herself single she laid herself open to the admiration of single men—what astonished her was that after these gentlemen had ceased to grace with their presence the hospitable board of the Vicomte de Belleisle, they would acknowledge with a stony stare the graceful salute of the widow if she happened to meet them during any of her daily drives about the city.

It was curious, Madeline thought, and on the impulse of the moment she mentioned the fact to her husband and Madame. They looked significantly towards each other, gave some slight explanation, and turned the conversation to other things.

But Madeline was not satisfied; she had noted the look which had passed between the pair, and it made her more curious than she had been before. What could it mean? There was some dark mystery about their life which she must discover, ere it led her into serious harm.

But how to discover it? After long pondering she resolved to pick out from the innumerable guests who frequented her husband’s table some man to whom she could speak freely, and to question him.

The resolve made, she endeavoured to carry it out. Every night when, attired in clinging satin or velvet, she entered the luxurious dining-room by Madame de Fontenay’s side, her eye travelled from one place to another, timidly looking for sympathy which never came. Although the guests would flatter and flirt with her, there was not one among them whom she felt she could really trust.

So the days and weeks wore on, hopelessly, sadly, despite the glitter and gaudy show. Hope died within her heart; but suddenly it was revived.

‘Madeline, dearest, you did not tell me this morning whether or not you would do me the favour I asked of you?’ said Belleisle again that day after her drive was over.

Madeline looked at him quietly.

‘You wish me to look well to-night?’

‘My charming little one, you do always look well,’ retorted the polite Frenchman. ‘I wish you to look second to no lady in Paris.’

‘Very well, Monsieur. I will try.’

A new guest to dress for; some new flatteries to listen to. The announcement was not novel, and yet Madeline felt that night as she had never felt before. She had a pleasure in dressing, a delight in watching herself grow more beautiful under the busy hands of her maid, and, when at length her toilet was complete, she sat with beating heart and heightened colour, as if awaiting the consummation of some great event.

She entered the dining-room, as she had done hundreds of times before, by Madame de Fontenay’s side. She bowed, and shook hands with all she knew, and then was introduced to the stranger.

‘Monsieur le Marquis de Vaux—Mademoiselle de Fontenay.’

Mad............