But Anna Wolsky was behaving in what appeared to Sylvia a very strange manner.  She walked round to where the fortune-teller was sitting.

“You saw something in the cards which you do not wish to tell me?” she said imperiously.  “I do not mind being told the truth.  I am not a child.”

“I swear I saw nothing!” cried the Frenchwoman angrily.  “I am too ill to see anything.  The cards were to me perfectly blank!”

In the bright sunlight now pouring into the little room the soothsayer looked ghastly, her skin had turned a greenish white.

“Mesdames, I beg you to excuse me,” she said again.  “If you do not wish to give me the five francs, I will not exact any fee.”

She pointed with a shaking finger to the door, and Sylvia put a five-franc piece down on the table.

But before her visitors had quite groped their way to the end of the short, steep staircase, they heard a cry.

“Mesdames!” then after a moment’s pause, “Mesdames, I implore you to come back!”

They looked at one another, and then Anna, putting her finger to her lips, went back up the stairs, alone.

“Well,” she said, briefly, “I knew you had something to tell me.  What is it?”

“No,” said Madame Cagliostra dully.  “I must have the other lady here, too.  You must both be present to hear what I have to say.”

Anna went to the door and called out, “Come up Sylvia!  She wants to see us both together.”

There was a thrill of excitement, of eager expectancy in Madame Wolsky’s voice; and Sylvia, surprised, ran up again into the little room, now full of light, sun, and air.

“Stand side by side,” ordered the soothsayer shortly.  She stared at them for a moment, and then she said with extreme earnestness:—­

“I dare not let you go away without giving you a warning.  Your two fates are closely intertwined.  Do not leave Paris for awhile, especially do not leave Paris together.  I see you both running into terrible danger!  If you do go away—­and I greatly fear that you will do so—­then I advise you, together and separately, to return to Paris as soon as possible.”

“One question I must ask of you,” said Anna Wolsky urgently.  “How goes my luck?  You know what I mean?  I play!”

“It is not your luck that is threatened,” replied the fortune-teller, solemnly; “on the contrary, I see wonderful luck; packets of bank-notes and rouleaux of gold!  It is not your luck—­it is something far, far more important that is in peril.  Something which means far more to you even than your luck!”

The Polish woman smiled rather sadly.

“I wonder what that can be?” she exclaimed.

“It is your life!”

“My life?” echoed Anna.  “I do not know that I value my life as much as you think I do.”

“The English have a proverb, Madame, which says:  ’A short life and a merry one.’”

“Can you predict that I shall have, if a short life, then a merry one?”