One night toward the end of this week of enchanting rencontres—­this week of effort to uncover the vulnerable spot in the other’s armour—­Genevra stood leaning upon the rail which enclosed the hanging garden.  She was gazing abstractedly into the black night, out of which, far away, blinked the light in the bungalow.  A dreamy languor lay upon her.  She heard the cry of the night birds, the singing of woodland insects, but she was not aware of these persistent sounds; far below in the grassy court she could hear Britt conversing with Saunders and Miss Pelham; behind her in the little garden, Lady Deppingham and Browne had their heads close together over a table on which they were playing a newly discovered game of “solitaire”; Deppingham and Mrs. Browne leaned against the opposite railing, looking down into the valley.  The soft night wind fanned her face, bringing to her nostrils the scent of the fragrant forest.  It was the first night in a week that he had missed coming to the chateau.

She missed him.  She was lonely.

He had told her of the meeting that was to be held at the bungalow that night, at which he was to be asked to deliver over to Rasula’s committee the papers, the receipts and the memoranda that he had accumulated during his months of employment in their behalf.  She had a feeling of dread—­a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except that under all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who had courage, a man who was not afraid.

“How silly I am,” she said, half aloud in her abstraction.

She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer, guilty smile on her lips.  The wistful, shamed smile faded as she looked upon the couple who had given her so much trouble a week ago.  She felt, with a hot flash of self-abasement, as if she was morally responsible for the consequences that seemed likely to attend Lady Deppingham’s indiscretions.

Across the garden from where she was flaying herself bitterly, Lady Deppingham’s husband was saying in low, agitated tones to Bobby Browne’s wife, with occasional furtive glances at the two solitaire workers: 

“Now, see here, Brasilia, I’m not saying that our—­that is, Lady Deppingham and Bobby—­are accountable for what has happened, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant!  It’s of little consequence who is trying to poison us, don’t you know.  And all that. They wouldn’t do it, I’m sure, but somebody is!  That’s what I mean, d’ye see?  Lady Dep—­”

“I know my husband wouldn’t—­couldn’t do such a thing, Lord Deppingham,” came from Drusilla’s stiff lips, almost as a moan.  She was very miserable.

“Of course not, my dear Drusilla,” he protested nervously.  Then suddenly, as his eye caught what he considered a suspicious movement of Bobby’s hand as he placed a card close to Lady Deppingham’s fingers:  “Demme, I—­I’d rather he wouldn’t—­but I beg your pardon, Drusilla!  It’s all perfectly innocent.”