Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon.

Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. The strange effect produced on him by the room — following on the other strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead brother — exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man. ‘Perhaps,’ he reflected, ‘my temperament is more imaginative than I supposed it to be — and this is a trick played on me by my own fancy? Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something is physically amiss with me? I don’t feel ill, certainly. But that is no safe criterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night — I can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn’t seem likely to supply me with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from an invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback. If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of the theatre.’

As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing him with marked attention. ‘Am I right in supposing you to be Mr. Francis Westwick?’ the lady asked, at the moment when he looked at her.

‘That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour of speaking?’

‘We have only met once,’ she answered a little evasively, ‘when your late brother introduced me to the members of his family. I wonder if you have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?’ She lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlight rested on her face.

Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most cordially disliked — the widow of his dead brother, the first Lord Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her. His experience on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘I thought you were in America!’

She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simply stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her.

‘Let me walk with you for a few minutes,’ she quietly replied. ‘I have something to say to you.’

He showed her his cigar. ‘I am smoking,‘he said.

‘I don’t mind smoking.’

After that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright brutality) but to yield. He did it with the worst possible grace. ‘Well?’ he resumed. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first tell you what my position is. I am alone in the world. To the loss of my husband has now been added another bereavement, the loss of my companion in America, my brother — Baron Rivar.’

The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown on his assumed relationship to the Countess, were well known to Francis. ‘Shot in a gambling-saloon?’ he asked brutally.

‘The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,’ she said, with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain occasions. ‘As a native of horse-racing England, you belong to a nation of gamblers. My brother died no extraordinary death, Mr. Westwick. He sank, with many other unfortunate people, under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit. The calamity of his loss made the United States unendurable to me. I left by the first steamer that sailed from New York — a French vessel which brought me to Havre. I continued my lonely journey to the South of France. And then I went on to Venice.’

‘What does all this matter to me?’ Francis thought to himself. She paused, evidently expecting him to say something. ‘So you have come to Venice?’ he said carelessly. ‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t help it,’ she answered.

Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. ‘That sounds odd,’ he remarked. ‘Why couldn’t you help it?’

‘Women are accustomed to act on impulse,’ she explained. ‘Suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey? And yet, this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in. Associations that I detest are connected with it in my mind. If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again. I hate Venice. As you see, however, I am here. When did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before? Never, I am sure!’ She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone. ‘When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice?’ she asked.

It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but that extraordinary question did it. ‘How the devil did you know that Miss Lockwood was coming to Venice?’ he exclaimed.

She laughed — a bitter mocking laugh. ‘Say, I guessed it!’

Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was in Francis Warwick. ‘Lady Montbarry —!’ he began.

‘Stop there!’ she interposed. ‘Your brother Stephen’s wife calls herself Lady Montbarry now. I share my title with no woman. Call me by my name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying your brother. Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.’

‘Countess Narona,’ Francis resumed, ‘if your object in claiming my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. Speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.’

‘If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood’s arrival in Venice a secret,’ she retorted, ‘speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on your side, and say so.’

Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded. ‘Nonsense!’ he broke out petulantly. ‘My brother’s travelling arrangements are secrets to nobody. He brings Miss Lockwood here, with Lady Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice?’

The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She made no reply. The two strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity of the square, were now standing before the church of St. Mark. The moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail. Even the pigeons of St. Mark were visible, in dark closely packed rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors.

‘I never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,’ the Countess said quietly; speaking, not to Francis, but to herself. ‘Good-bye, St. Mark’s by moonlight! I shall not see you again.’

She turned away from the church, and saw Francis listening to her with wondering looks. ‘No,’ she resumed, placidly picking up the lost thread of the conversation, ‘I don’t know why Miss Lockwood is coming here, I only know that we are to meet in Venice.’

‘By previous appointment?’

‘By Destiny,’ she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyes on the ground. Francis burst out laughing. ‘Or, if you like it better,’ she instantly resumed, ‘by what fools call Chance.’ Francis answered easily, out of the depths of his strong common sense. ‘Chance seems to be taking a queer way of bringing the meeting about,’ he said. ‘We have all arranged to meet at the Palace Hotel. How is it that your name is not on the Visitors’ List? Destiny ought to have brought you to the Palace Hotel too.’

She abruptly pulled down her veil. ‘Destiny may do that yet!’ she said. ‘The Palace Hotel?’ she repeated, speaking once more to herself. ‘The old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. The place itself! Jesu Maria! the place itself!’ She paused and laid her hand on her companion’s arm. ‘Perhaps Miss Lockwood is not going there with the rest of you?’ she burst out with sudden eagerness.............