could clasp her hands.

But when the launch came in full view, he perceived no lady was
there--only Dmitry's black form stood alone by the chairs.

Paul's heart sank like lead. He could hardly contain his anxiety until the
servant stepped ashore and handed him a letter, and this was its contents:

"My beloved one--I am not well to-day--a foolish chill. Nothing of
consequence, only the cold wind of the lake I could not face. At one
o'clock, when Lucerne is at lunch, come to me by the terrace gate. Come to
me, I cannot live without you, Paul."

"What is it, Dmitry?" he said anxiously. "Madame is not ill, is she? Tell
me--"

"Not ill--oh no!" the servant said, only Paul must know Madame was of a
delicacy at times in the cold weather, and had to be careful of herself.
He added, too, that it would be wiser if Paul would lunch early before
they started, because, as he explained, it was not for the people of the
hotel to know he was there, and how else could he eat?

All of which advice was followed, and at one o'clock they landed at
Lucerne, and Paul walked quickly towards his goal, Dmitry in front to see
that the way was clear. Yes--there was no one about for the moment, and
like ghosts they glided through the little terrace door, and Paul went
into the room by the window, while Dmitry held the heavy curtains, and
then disappeared.

It was empty--the fact struck a chill note, in spite of the great bowls of