A small, shiny, pink card lay on the round table in Sylvia Bailey's
sitting-room at the Hôtel de l'Horloge in Paris.

She had become quite accustomed to finding one or more cards--cards from
dressmakers, cards from corset-makers, cards from hairdressers--lying on
her sitting-room table, but there had never been a card quite like this
card.

Although it was pink, it looked more like a visiting-card than a
tradesman's advertisement, and she took it up with some curiosity. It was
inscribed "Madame Cagliostra," and underneath the name were written the
words "_Diseuse de la Bonne Aventure_," and then, in a corner, in very
small black letters, the address, "5, Rue Jolie, Montmartre."

A fortune-teller's card? What an extraordinary thing!

Like many pretty, prosperous, idle women, Sylvia was rather
superstitious. Not long before this, her first visit to Paris, a London
acquaintance had taken her to see a noted palmist named "Pharaoh," in
Bond Street. She had paid her guinea willingly enough, but the result had
vaguely disappointed her, and she had had the feeling, all the time she
was with him, that the man was not really reading her hand.

True, "Pharaoh" had told her she was going abroad, and at that time she
had no intention of doing so. The palmist had also told her--and this was
really rather curious--that she would meet, when abroad, a foreign woman
who would have a considerable influence on her life. Well, in this very
Hôtel de l'Horloge Mrs. Bailey had come across a Polish lady, named Anna
Wolsky, who was, like Sylvia herself, a young widow, and the two had