relapse when I see it."

"I remember now," said Angela. "There was a Polish girl who sang in
concerts, and then made her _début_ in opera in London. I never saw or
heard her, but people used to say she was divine. Then she went back to
Russia, three or four years ago, and seemed to vanish into space."

"She vanished into Siberia," replied Miss Dene. "Meanwhile, Mr. Falconer
had had time to fall in love with her in London, just before she took her
Russian engagement. It was his sister who told me this--perhaps to prove
that there was no use my having Designs, with a capital D. He followed the
girl to St. Petersburg; she disappeared. He put the matter into the hands
of a detective--an American one, brought over on purpose--money no object.
Then Mr. Falconer couldn't stay any longer himself, on account of
important interests on this side--but I believe he flashed across once in
a while, during the last four years, when he was supposed to be resting
and seeing Europe with his sister. She was always in the secret. Well at
last they wormed out the truth: that the Dobieski'd been arrested as a
Nihilist, secretly, and, in spite of her popularity on the stage as a
singer, sent to Siberia. With money, or influence, or both, she was
rescued from some dreadful hole, and smuggled to England. But she'd had
rheumatic fever, and her beauty was gone--she was a cripple. Still the
extraordinary man was faithful--though he'd never even had a chance to try
and make her like him. Did you ever hear of such a lover, out of a book?"

"No," said Angela, interested. But something within her whispered, "There
might be another such lover."

"Specialists--Mr. Falconer and his sister had the best--said there was
practically no hope that the girl would ever be herself again. Yet the man