Did I not say so, Hilary?’ Melusine’s glance shot across to the newcomer, and found a petite blonde standing there, very fashionably attired in a velvet mantel over an apple-green robe, the furred hood framing a face alive with mischief. His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. I heard everywhere of his enormous riches and his generosity. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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