A young man, straight and tall and lithe, bounded from the launch and mounted the terrace steps.  She saw his clean-cut profile, his well-groomed appearance, which even in the moonlight was plainly evident.  She noted the regal bearing of his well-knit figure, and she caught the delicious aroma of the particular brand of cigar Paul always smoked, as he passed beneath the balcony where she stood.

She turned in very terror and fled to her rooms, pulling the curtains closer.  She shrank like a frightened child upon the couch, her face white and drawn with fear—­of what, she did not know.

After a time—­long, terrible hours, it seemed to her—­she parted the curtains with tremulous fingers and looked out again at the sky, and shuddered.  The virgin nun-face had mysteriously changed—­the moon that had looked so pure and spotless was now blood-red with passion.

Opal crept back, pulling the curtains together again, and threw herself face downward upon the couch.  God help her!

* * * * *

Paul Zalenska lingered long over his dinner that night.  He was tired and thoughtful.  And he enjoyed sitting at that little table where his father perhaps sat the night he had first seen her who became his love.

And Paul pictured to himself that first meeting.  He tried to imagine that he was Paul Verdayne, and that shortly his lady would come in with her stately tread, and take her seat, and be waited upon by her elderly attendant.  Perhaps she would look at him through those long dark lashes with eyes that seemed not to see.  But there was no special table, to-night, and the Boy felt that the picture was woefully incomplete—­that he had been left out of the scheme of things entirely.

After finishing his meal, he went out, as his father had done, out under the stars and sat on the little bench under the ivy, and smoked a cigar.  He felt a curious thrill of excitement, quite out of keeping with his loneliness.  Was it just the memory of that old love-story that had stirred his blood?  Why did his pulse leap, his blood race through his veins like this, his heart rise to his throat and hammer there so fiercely, so strangely.  Only one influence in all the world had ever done this to him—­only one influence—­one woman—­and she was miles and miles away!

Suddenly, impelled by some force beyond his power of resistance—­a sense of someone’s gaze fixed upon him, he raised his eyes to the ivy above him.  There, faint and indistinct in the shadow of the leaves, but quite unmistakable, he saw the white, frightened face of the girl he loved, her luminous eyes looking straight down into his.

He sprang to his feet, and pulled himself up by the ivy to the level of the terrace, but she had vanished and the watching stars danced mockingly overhead.  Was he dreaming?  Had that strange old love-story taken away from him the last remaining shred of sanity?  Surely he hadn’t seen Opal!  She was in Paris—­damn it!—­and he clenched his teeth at the thought—­certainly not at Lucerne!