At one side of the hall, the center of a little group, stood a white-haired woman of commanding presence.  Jewels flashed in her dress, and there was laughter about her.  Evidently this was the Marquise de Rovere, and she was busy welcoming her guests.  With some it was more than a passing word of greeting, there was news to be imparted by one lately in communication with Austria or Prussia, or perchance with England; there was the latest news from Paris to be had from one who had just escaped from his enemies; there was news, too, of friends who had not been so fortunate, or who had willingly stayed to face the storm; there were rumors which had been gathered from all sources to be whispered.  This chateau of Beauvais was a meeting place, a center for much scheming; and for a while the hours must be made to pass as pleasantly as possible.

These men and women were different from those he had come in contact with, of a different world altogether; yet his youth responded to the music and verve of it all.  Because it was different, new and unfamiliar to him, that was no proof that what he had known was right, and this was wrong.  His blood was pulsating, the atmosphere was exhilarating.  Pleasure flung him her gauge, why should he not pick it up?  A woman was beside him, dark eyes flashing through her mask, red lips wreathed into a smile.  The next moment reserve had broken down and he was dancing with her, acquitting himself with sufficient grace to pass muster, and almost as ready with his compliment as she was to receive it.

“We shall dance again, monsieur,” she said presently, when another partner carried her away.

“Until then I shall count the moments,” Barrington answered, and it was perhaps this suggestion of the future which brought to his mind the real reason for his presence there.

A large woman, with raven hair, and of such a figure that it shook when she walked; among the dancers there were many who might pass for large women, the hair of one or two might be considered raven, but there was not one who completed the full description he had had of Mademoiselle St. Clair.  Certainly she was not among those who stood near the Marquise, and Barrington went from vantage point to vantage point in search of her.  Neither could he discover Monsieur le Comte or his friend.  Lodged in the chateau, they had possibly obtained richer garments, and would be difficult to identify.  The fulfillment of his mission was not to be so easy as he had imagined.

He had been watching from a corner near the entrance to the ballroom, partially concealed by a little knot of people who were standing before him.  He could have overheard their conversation, but he was not listening.  He was wondering how he could find mademoiselle.  There was surely some other apartment where guests were, for his eyes were keen, and he had certainly not seen her yet.

“Monsieur does not dance?”

Barrington turned quickly.  The little crowd which had stood in front of him had gone, and near him was a woman.  It was difficult to know whether her words were a statement of fact, question or invitation.