so separated for the night. Mr. Ricardo, however, was to learn
something more of Celia the next morning; for while he was fixing
his tie before the mirror Wethermill burst into his dressing-room.
Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the surge of his indignation.
Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage upon the gentle
tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette was
sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.
Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded
the door like the custodian of a chapel?

"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.
Ricardo, sternly.

But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.

"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to
see you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo--you must, indeed!"

Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the
help wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance
at Wethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in
his voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo
slipped out of his affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has
happened?" he asked quietly.

"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a
newspaper. "Read it," he said.

It was a special edition of a local newspaper, Le Journal de
Savoie, and it bore the date of that morning.