"Oh!" said Sir John, in a kind of grunt.

The greeting was so exceptionally
uncourteous even for Sir John, that Barletti
rose up as though he were moved by a
spring over which his will had no control,
and said, "I regret my intrusion. If I had
supposed for a moment that monsieur le
baron was seriously ill——"

"Who says so? I am not seriously ill!"
snarled Sir John.

"Of course not!" interposed Veronica,
quickly. "I said so. If Sir John had been,
seriously ill, it would be another matter.
But his indisposition was of the very
slightest, and it is now quite gone."

Either, she thought, he must confess to
being so indisposed that the presence of a
stranger irked him, or he must ask Barletti
to remain. But Sir John did neither.
Whichever one of several given courses of
action was most pleasing to Sir John's state
of temper at the moment, he habitually
adopted. Such cobwebs as duty towards,
or consideration for, others, were entirely
powerless to restrain the passions or caprices
of his monstrous egotism.

"Yes," he said, speaking, as he had
spoken throughout, in a muffled strange
voice, and articulating indistinctly: "I am
quite well, but I don't feel energetic by
any means. I shall not ask you to stay
tonight, prince; it would only bore you."

It was almost impossible to resist this
hint, but Barletti caught a glance from
Veronica which so plainly begged him to
remain, that he answered: "Now, my good
Gale, I won't hear that. Bore me! Not
at all; I shall stay and chat until your
bed-time. Or, if you prefer it, we'll have
our partie of picquet. Which shall it
be?"

Sir John was surprised at this unwonted
insistance. The man had had his dinner;
why did he wish to stay? That he evidently
did wish it, was however no inducement
to his host to yield.

"Frankly, my dear friend," said Sir John,
making an odd grimace, as though he had
tried to smile and failed: "I will to-night
have neither chat nor cards. I decline your
company! That is the charm of having an
intimate friend; I know you won't be angry
if I beg you to leave me to myself, or," he
added, slowly turning his eyes on Veronica,
"to miladi. That is myself; it's quite the
same thing."

But in looking at Veronica, he surprised
a glance of intelligence passing from her
eyes to Barletti. Sir John could not
change the direction of his own gaze
quickly enough to catch the answering
look on the prince's face: his facial muscles
appeared not to be under full command;
but he saw an expression of irresolution
and conflict in Barletti's whole bearing.

The prince rose, and then seated himself
again, and then again rose with more
determination and advanced to the side of the
sofa holding out his hand to Sir John,
and saying: " Good-night, then, caro Gale.
Angry? No, of course I shall not be
angry!" Then he bowed low to "miladi,"
and said in a low tone and with intention,
"I regret to be banished from our good
Gale, miladi: but I am sure he will be
quite himself tomorrow. You need not—
none of us need be uneasy about him."

"Uneasy!" echoed Sir John. "Que diable,
Barletti—who is likely to be uneasy?"

And as he spoke, he looked not at the
prince but at Veronica.

"Who indeed?" said Veronica, returning
Barletti's parting salutation with the
stateliest of bows. She was reassured at
heart. For she argued thus: "If Barletti
thought there were anything serious the
matter, he would not have been restrained
by any fear of Sir John from giving me a
hint of it by word or look."

And the first faint dawn of a project rose
dimly in her mind—a project of attaching
and binding this man to her, so as to secure
his assistance and protection if—if anything
should happen to Sir John. And already
in the dawn of her project the prospect
of that dread "something which might
happen" showed a little less dreadful.

Meanwhile Sir John lay on the sofa
watching her from under the shadow that
covered his face, and thinking of the look
he had surprised her giving Barletti. The
look had put a new idea into his mind, a
very unpleasant idea, not unpleasant merely
because, if correct, it would argue some of
the ideas he had hitherto entertained to have
been wrong (though that contingency alone
was disagreeable enough), but because, also,
it would have the effect of making him uneasy
in the future.

CHAPTER VII. WHAT THEY SAID AT THE CLUB.

PAUL had such a terrible time of it that
night, in undressing Sir John and getting
him to bed, that when he was alone in his
own little room—within easy reach of his
master's, and communicating with it by
means of a large bell hanging at the head
of his bed—he began to go over some
calculations in his mind, with the half-formed
intention of retiring from the baronet's