Mr. Linmere played and sang with exquisite taste and skill—­he was a complete master of the art, and, in spite of herself, Margie listened to him with a delight that was almost fascination, but which subsided the moment the melody ceased.

He judged her by the majority of women he had met, and finding her indifferent, he sought to rouse her jealousy by flirting with Miss Lee, who was by no means adverse to his attentions.  But Margie hailed the transfer with a relief which was so evident, that Mr. Linmere, piqued and irritated, took up his hat to leave, in the midst of one of Miss Lee’s most brilliant descriptions of what she had seen in Italy, from whence she had just returned.  He went over to the sofa where Margie was sitting.

“I hope to please you better next time,” he said, lifting her hand.  “Good-night, Margie dear.”  And before she was aware, he touched his lips to her forehead.  She tore her hand away from him, and a flush of anger sprang to her cheek.  He surveyed her with admiration.  He liked a little spirit in a woman, especially as he intended to be able to subdue it when it pleased him.  Her anger made her a thousand times more beautiful.  He stood looking at her a moment, then turned and withdrew.

Margie struck her forehead with her hand, as if she would wipe out the touch he had left there.

Alexandrine came and put her arm around Margie’s waist.

“I almost envy you, Margie,” she said, in that singularly purring voice of hers.  “Ah, Linmere is magnificent!  Such eyes, and hair, and such a voice!  Well, Margie, you are a fortunate girl.”

And Miss Lee sighed, and shook out the heavy folds of her violet silk, with the air of one who has been injured, but is determined to show a proper spirit of resignation.

Mr. Paul Linmere hurried along through an unfrequented street to his suite of rooms at the St. Nicholas.  He was very angry with everybody; he felt like an ill-treated individual.  He had expected Margie to fall at his feet at once.  A man of his attractions to be snubbed as he had been, by a mere chit of a girl, too!

“I will find means to tame her, when once she is mine,” he muttered.  “By heaven! but it will be rare sport to break that fiery spirit!  It will make me young again!”

Something white and shadowy bound his path.  A spectral hand was laid on his arm, chilling like ice, even through his clothing.  The ghastly face of a woman—­a face framed in jet black hair, and lit up by great black eyes bright as stars, gleamed through the mirk of the night.

The man gazed into the weird face, and shook like a leaf in the blast.  His arm sank nerveless to his side, palsied by that frozen touch; his voice was so unnatural that he started at the sound.

“My God!  Arabel Vere!  Do the dead come back?”

The great unnaturally brilliant eyes seemed to burn into his brain.  The cold hand tightened on his arm.  A breath like wind freighted with snow crossed his face.