drew open the window of the library and passed in.  A few seconds passed.  Jenny imagined her stealthily opening the door into the hall, and listening to make sure that the servants were in their own quarters and this part of the house deserted.  Then the girl reappeared at the window and made a sign.  From beneath the tree the man ran across the grass.  His face was turned towards Jenny, and the moonlight revealed it.  The man was Mario Escobar.

Jenny drew a little sharp breath.  She heard the window ever so gently latched.  Suddenly the light blazed out from the room and then, strip by strip, vanished, as if the curtains had been cautiously drawn.  The garden, the house resumed its aspect of quiet; all was as it had been when Jenny Prask first lifted the window of the corridor.  Jenny Prask crept cautiously away.

“Fancy that!” she said to herself, with a little chuckle of triumph.

In the room below Mario Escobar and Joan Whitworth were talking.

CHAPTER XXV

IN A LIBRARY

“You insisted that I should see you.  You have something to say to me,” said Joan.  She was breathing more quickly than usual and the blood fluttered in her cheeks, but she faced Mario Escobar with level eyes, and spoke without a tremor in her voice.  So far everything had happened just as she had planned.  There were these few difficult minutes now to be grappled with, and afterwards the ordeal would be ended, that foolish chapter in her life altogether closed.  “Will you please be quick?” she pleaded.

But Mario Escobar was in no hurry to answer.  He had never imagined that Joan Whitworth could look so beautiful.  He had never dreamed that she would take so much trouble.  Mario Escobar understood women’s clothes, and his eyes ran with a sensation of pleasure over her delicate frock with its shining bands, its embroidery of silver and flounces of fine lace, down to her slim brocaded shoes.  He had not, indeed, thought very much of her in the days when Linda Spavinsky was queen.  She had been a sort of challenge to him, because of her aloofness, her indifference.  Women were his profession, and here was a queer outlandish one whom it would be amusing to parade as his.  So he had set to work; he had a sense of art, he could talk with ingenuity on artistic matters, and he had flattered Joan by doing so; but always with a certain definite laughter and contempt for her.  Now her beauty rather swept him off his feet.  He looked at her in amazement.  Why this change?  And—­the second question for ever in his mind—­how could he profit by it?