her.

"Don't do that," I said. "You might hurt yourself."

She glanced at me, angry for the instant; but her anger dissolved in
an icy smile.

"Take it, Sir Cyril, to please me."

Her intonation was decidedly peculiar.

And Sir Cyril took the dagger.

"Miss Rosa's carriage," a commissionaire shouted, and, beckoning to
me, the girl moved imperiously down the steps to the courtyard. There
was no longer a smile on her face, which had a musing and withdrawn
expression. Sir Cyril stood stock-still, holding the dagger. What the
surrounding lackeys thought of this singular episode I will not guess.
Indeed, the longer I live, the less I care to meditate upon what
lackeys do think. But that the adventures of their employers provide
them with ample food for thought there can be no doubt.

Rosa's horses drew us swiftly away from the Grand Babylon Hotel, and
it seemed that she wished to forget or to ignore the remarkable
incident. For some moments she sat silent, her head slightly bent, her
cloak still thrown back, but showing no sign of agitation beyond a
slightly hurried heaving of the bosom.

I was discreet enough not to break in upon her reflections by any
attempt at conversation, for it seemed to me that what I had just