little time. I asked 'er to take some cognac my 'usband keeps for such
bad moments, but no, she would not! Is not that so, Sylvia?"

She stared down anxiously at the bowed head of her guest.

Sylvia looked up. As if hypnotised by the other woman's voice, she rose
to her feet--a wan, pitiful little smile came over her white face.

"Yes," she said dully, "the string of my pearls broke. I was taken faint.
I felt horribly queer--perhaps it was the heat."

Paul de Virieu took a sudden step forward into the room. He had just
become aware of something which had made him also feel what English
people call "queer."

That something had no business in the dining-room, for it belonged to the
kitchen--in fact it was a large wooden mallet of the kind used by French
cooks to beat meat tender. Just now the club end of the mallet was
sticking out of the drawer of the walnut-wood buffet.

The drawer had evidently been pulled out askew, and had stuck--as is the
way with drawers forming part of ill-made furniture.

Chester came to the door of the dining-room. M. Wachner had detained him
for a moment in the hall, talking volubly, explaining how pleasant had
been their little supper party till Mrs. Bailey had suddenly felt faint.

Chester looked anxiously at Sylvia. She was oddly pale, all the colour
drained from her face, but she seemed on quite good terms with Madame
Wachner! As for that stout, good-natured looking woman, she also was