He was interrupted by the cold, clear voice of Mrs. Taine, who had entered the room, unnoticed by them.  “I see you are going, Miss Andres.  Good-night.  I will mail you a check to-morrow.  Your music was very satisfactory.  An automobile is waiting to take you home.  Good night.”

Before Aaron King could speak, the girl was gone.

“Mr. Lagrange and I were just about to go,” said the artist, as the woman faced him.  “I hope Mr. Taine has not suffered severely from the excitement of the evening?”

The woman’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright with feverish excitement.  Going close to him, she said in a low, hurried tone, “No, no, you must not go.  Mr. Taine is all right in his room.  Every one else is having a good time.  You must not go.  Come, I have had no opportunity, at all, to have you to myself for a single moment.  Come, I—­”

As she had interrupted Aaron King’s reply to Sibyl Andres, the cool, sarcastic tones of Conrad Lagrange’s deep voice interrupted her.  “Mrs. Taine, they are hunting for you all over the house.  Your husband is calling for you.  I’m sure that Mr. King will excuse you, under the circumstances.”

Chapter XXX

In the Same Hour

In a splendid chamber, surrounded by every comfort and luxury that dollars could buy, and attended by liveried servants, Mr. Taine was dying.

The physician who met Mrs. Taine at the door, answered her look of inquiry with; “Your husband is very near the end, madam.”  Beside the bed, sat Louise, wringing her hands and moaning.  James Rutlidge stood near.  Without speaking, Mrs. Taine went forward.

The doctor, bending over his patient, with his fingers upon the skeleton-like wrist, said, “Mr. Taine, Mr. Taine, your wife is here.”

In response, the eyes, deep sunken under the wrinkled brow, opened; the loosely hanging, sensual lips quivered.

The physician spoke again; “Your wife is here, Mr. Taine.”

A sudden gleam of light flared up in the glazed eyes.  The doctor could have sworn that the lips were twisted into a shadow of a ghastly, mocking smile.  As if summoning, by a supreme effort of his will, from some unguessed depths of his being, the last remnant of his remaining strength, the man looked about the room and, in a hoarse whisper, said, “Send the others away—­everybody—­but her.”

“O papa, papa!” exclaimed poor Louise, protestingly.

“Never mind, daughter,” came the whispered answer from the bed.  “Try to be game, girl—­game as your father.  Take her away, Jim.”

As the physician passed Mrs. Taine, who had thus far stood like a statue, seemingly incapable of thought or feeling or movement, he said in a low tone, “I will be just outside the door, madam; easily within call.”

When only the woman was left in the room with her husband, the dying man spoke again; “Come here.  Stand where I can see you.”