“Perhaps your memorandum of yesterday’s doings will help you.”

“I will get it.  But it won’t give you the least help.  I keep it only for my own eye, and—­”

“Never mind; let me see it.”

And she waited impatiently for it to be put in her hands.

But when she came to read the record of the last two days, this was all she found: 

Saturday:  Mauretania nearly due.  I must let Mr. Delahunt know today that he’s wanted here to-morrow.  Hetty will try on my dresses.  Says she has to alter them.  Mrs. Peabody came to lunch, and we in such trouble!  Had to go down street.  Errand for Clement.  The will, the will!  I think of nothing else.  Is it safe where it is?  No peace of mind till to-morrow.  Clement better this afternoon.  Says he must live till Carlos gets back; not to triumph over him, but to do what he can to lessen his disappointment.  My good Clement!

So nervous, I went to pasting photographs, and was forgetting all my troubles when Hetty brought in another dress to try on.

Quiet in the great house, during which the clock on the staircase sent forth seven musical peals.  To Violet waiting alone in the library, they acted as a summons.  She was just leaving the room, when the sound of hubbub in the hall below held her motionless in the doorway.  An automobile had stopped in front, and several persons were entering the house, in a gay and unseemly fashion.  As she stood listening, uncertain of her duty, she perceived the frenzied figure of Mrs. Quintard approaching.  As she passed by, she dropped one word:  “Carlos!” Then she went staggering on, to disappear a moment later down the stairway.

This vision lost, another came.  This time it was that of Clements’s wife leaning from the marble balustrade above, the shadow of approaching grief battling with the present terror in her perfect features.  Then she too withdrew from view and Violet, left for the moment alone in the great hall, stepped back into the library and began to put on her hat.

The lights had been turned up in the grand salon and it was in this scene of gorgeous colour that Mrs. Quintard came face to face with Carlos Pelacios.  Those who were witness to her entrance say that she presented a noble appearance, as with the resolution of extreme desperation she stood waiting for his first angry attack.

He, a short, thick-set, dark man, showing both in features and expression the Spanish blood of his paternal ancestors, started to address her in tones of violence, but changed his note, as he met her eye, to one simply sardonic.

“You here!” he began.  “I assure you, madame, that it is a pleasure which is not without its inconveniences.  Did you not receive my cable-gram requesting this house to be made ready for my occupancy?”

“I did.”

“Then why do I find guests here?  They do not usually precede the arrival of their host.”

“Clement is very ill—­”