and walked off. A policeman came hurrying along but he was just
too late. Very soon they were on their way down Holborn. Once
more Laverick had escaped.

A French man-servant, with the sad face and immaculate dress of a
High-Church cleric, took possession of him as soon as he had asked
for Mademoiselle Idiale. He was shown into one of the most
delightful little rooms he had ever even dreamed of. The walls
were hung with that peculiar shade of blue satin which Mademoiselle
so often affected in her clothes. Laverick, who was something of
a connoisseur, saw nowhere any object which was not, of its sort,
priceless, - French furniture of the best and choicest period, a
statuette which made him, for a moment, almost forget the scene
from which he had just arrived. The air in the room seemed as
though it had passed through a grove of lemon trees, - it was fresh
and sweet yet curiously fragrant. Laverick sank down into one of
the luxurious blue-brocaded chairs, conscious for the first time
that he was out of breath. Then the door opened silently and
there entered not the woman whom he had been expecting, but Mr.
Lassen. Laverick rose to his feet half doubtfully. Lassen's
small, queerly-shaped face seemed to have become one huge
ingratiating smile.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Laverick," he said, - "very glad
indeed."

"I have come to call upon Mademoiselle Idiale," Laverick answered,
somewhat curtly. He had disliked this man from the first moment
he had seen him, and he saw no particular reason why he should
conceal his feelings.