Over his egg he tried to read the morning paper, but the words ran together. . . . Lorette!... Lorette! Her name sang in his ears like some terrible, sweet song! O God! The pity of it all! . . . For he knew that he must never see Lorette again.

He recalled his first sight of her. It was at a formal dinner, there in Newport, only a week before. Only a week, yet it seemed a year! Owing to some oversight they had not been introduced, but he had noticed. the strange start she gave as he came into the room, and he, too, had been filled with inexplicable emotion as their eyes met. She sat across the table from him. On his right the Duchess of Everleigh was placed; on his left the beautiful Comtesse de Rougemont. It was with the greatest difficulty that he managed to talk with them or look at them, so conscious was he of the radiant being across the board. And when now and then their eyes would meet above the snowy napery, the costly flowers, the priceless plate and crystal under the weight of which the table groaned, a peculiar smile of sympathy and understanding would pass between them. That was all-yet it seemed to Desbarets that he had known this beautiful woman always!

Strange, too! For they had not even spoken together, and he did not know her name. He had only overheard his hostess calling her "Lorette." Lorette! It seemed to him that he had never heard a name so beautiful; a name so like-her.

After dinner he was mad to go to her, but he was held in conversation by David Coventry. Almost any man in America would have been glad to listen to the great David. Coventry. Not so young Bobbie Desbarets! Yet, by the irony of fate, Coventry, the man of power, who held American finance in his pudgy hand, even as he held his great cigar, selected Desbarets to talk to. He told a story of how he had squeezed a great corporation until it yielded to his indomitable will, and as he told it young Desbarets loathed him the more. What a brute the man was! Yes, and ruthless as he was in business, he would be no less ruthless with a woman!

At last he managed to escape to the drawing-room, but only to fall into the clutches of the Duchess of Everleigh, who

Dawn had bored him for half an hour

with her efforts to exact a

promise from him to visit her at Everleigh Towers, in Herts, and hunt with the Everleigh pack.

Then he saw Lorette rise and say good night to their hostess. She was going! He had not spoken with her! Gad! Would the tiresome titled woman never let him go? With a muttered exclamation he shook her off and stepped to the door. As Lorette passed from the great salon, their eyes met in a long, lingering glance. He had never seen a light like that in any woman's eyes before. Her hand moved slowly to her corsage. She plucked a single flower from the bouquet of rare orchids she wore and dropped it to the floor. Desbarets bent and picked it up. Then, though she did not speak, he saw her lips form the words: "For you!"

That night he could not sleep for thoughts of her. He tossed and tossed, living over in memory the wonderful evening. "You are not well, sir," Meadows remarked, solicitously, at his bedside in the morning. Curse the fellow for his impudence!

That afternoon, while tooling his powerful racing-car, Desbarets saw her again. She was driving a pair of spanking bays. They shied, but she handled them superbly. And there was in her eyes the look that he had seen the night before. It told him everything everything! Dazed, halfstunned by the glory of it all, he very nearly ditched his car. It trembled for an instant on two tires before, with an adroit turn of the wheel, he brought it to the road again.

"Careful, Mr. Bobbie!" warned the chauffeur. "That was a close shave, sir!"

Desbarets looked at the man coldly. "Smeed," he remarked, "you forget yourself!"

The next day he walked, restless, in the woods. The leaves were turning and the autumn sunlight filtered through the branches. All nature seemed to sing her

There followed one of those idyllic Letchwood conversations, in which they pretended, fancifully, that they were the only man and woman in the world. Then something seemed to snap within him. He tried to control himself, and to that end dug his finger-nails into his palms. He told himself that he had seen her only twice; that he had never spoken to her until now; that the feelings which surged through him were nothing short of madness-sheer madness! And yet a great wave of longing swept over him.

"Lorette!" he burst out passionately. "I love you! We are meant for each other! You know it! I saw it in your eyes when we first met!"

"Don't!" she whispered, going white.

"It was bound to come!" he cried, his deep, well-bred voice throbbing with suppressed passion. "It is Fate! You love me! Tell me that you love me!"

Her pallor deepened. She swayed like an aspen in the wind. As she was about to fall he caught her in his strong arms. She lay there radiant, palpitant, like an imprisoned bird. He felt the warmth of her slender young body.

"Look at me!" he cried exultantly.
His tone was masterful. She obeyed.
"You love me!" he said.

She smiled up at him with dreamy eyes and nodded. Then, with the glory of the sunset all around them, he rained his kisses on her sweet, moist mouth.

Slowly the twilight fell about them, while still he held her in his arms.

"And to think," he whispered, "that to me you are only Lorette! That I do not even know your name!"

At that she stiffened suddenly within his strong embrace. The smile vanished from her lips; a look of anguish came into her eves. "My name!" she sobbed. "I had forgotten that forgotten all! This is only a dream! Let me go! Tell me it is only a dream!"

He released her. Panting, she leaned against a tree.

"What is it?" he cried in alarm. "Speak, Lorette!"

"My name!" she wept. "That brings it all back! Can't you see? Can't you guess?"

"No! For God's sake, speak!"

Trembling terribly, she drew herself together. "My name,' "My name," she said slowly, "is Lorette Coventry!"

"Ah, no!" cried Desbarets, an icy chill running through his body. "You can not mean that you are " He could not utter the rest.

She inclined her head.

"Heaven help me!" she said. "It is true. I am David Coventry's wife!"

Before her eyes he seemed to wither, like a man suddenly grown old. His broad shoulders drooped. He leaned his weight against a tree-trunk. Slowly he raised one of his gloved hands and removed the fashionable hat from his bowed head. Then in choking tones he spoke two words:

"Good-by!"

"Good-by!" Her voice was like a dying breath.

For one brief instant he felt again the warmness of her fair young body as she passed him in the narrow path. Then she was gone, and Desbarets was standing there alone, bareheaded, in the cold, gray woods.

That night a huge red racing-car dashed down the Desbarets drive, made the turn on two wheels, and sped furiously off across the world. It had but one occupant-a man who drove like a maddened demon. Through dark, dripping woods, past echoing hamlets, down into valleys, up over the crests of hills, the great car roared like a wild dragon with its two great, flaming eyes. Faster! Faster! The tires ate the miles as though the devil were behind! . . .

Dawn had already kissed the eastern sky when the car returned. A sharp turn of the wheel and the monster swerved into the drive and vanished with a roar, leaving the great stone gate-posts standing there like sentinels, bearing proudly aloft the arms of the house of Desbarets.

And it was at that point that the story caught up to its own beginning: the awakening of young Bobbie Desbarets, the man servant, the bath, the mettled horse, the second bath, the heartache. It took two

"Meadows," he said. "You will pack at once. We are going on a long journey." The man was imperturbable. "When do we leave, sir?"

"To-night. We sail on the Lusitania to

morrow.

"Very good, sir. May I make so bold as to ask, sir, where we are going?"

Desbarets' eye wandered listlessly across the newspaper before him. A dispatch caught his attention:

Biarritz, France, Feb. 19.-Prince Boris Karaminski, the richest nobleman in Russia, had an extraordinary adventure in the casino, here, last night. While standing at the baccarat table, conversing with Mlle. Liane de Fougères, the famous ballerina

He read no more. What did it matter where he went? Why not let the newspaper decide for him? The idea was amusing.

"To Biarritz," he said.

A young Frenchman, inflamed with wine, rose to his feet. "Who is he?" he cried. "Who is this swaggering American who would refuse a kiss from the red lips of beautiful Selma Nikoloff?" He attempted to bar Desbarets' way, but was brushed aside. His hat was knocked off.

"Curse you!" he cried. "You shall pay for this!"

Desbarets bowed.

"At your service, Monsieur," he said. "Your seconds will find me at my hotel in the morning." Then he passed from the

room.

was gone.

In Biarritz he took the most expensive rooms in the hotel. At night he was to be seen in his immaculate evening dress in the salles of the casino. He gambled heavily, and his luck was the talk of the world of fashion and of the demi-monde. One night a beautiful Russian woman, with white skin and burning eyes, asked him to play for her at baccarat. He did so, and at midnight tossed into her lap a great sheaf of thousand-franc notes.

She tried to kiss him. "Pardon, mam'selle," he demurred politely.

Outside it was storming. The rain beat on his face. He bared his head to it, and instead of going back to his hotel took the walk leading up to the cliffs. Harder and harder fell the torrent of rain; louder and louder howled the wind; higher and higher dashed the waves as they struck the rocks below.

Above his head the thunder crashed in ter

rific peals, and lightning flashes illumined the wild scene about him. All Nature seemed to be in revolt to-night!

On, on, into the storm he pressed.

But stop! What was that? It seemed to Desbarets that he had heard a faint cry. He paused. But no! What human being would be out in such a storm? 'Twas the cry of a gull that he had heard. As he was about to move on there came a flash of lightning. lightning. What was that lying there, like a bundle of clothes, beside the rocky path? He leaned over and touched it. It stirred beneath his hand. A low moan reached his ears.

"What is the matter?" he demanded in perfect French.

"I have turned my ankle," came the faint reply in the same language. It was a woman's voice, soft and melodious. Desbarets had a vague feeling that he had heard it before, somewhere.

Hastily slipping from his Inverness coat, he raised the recumbent figure and wrapped it in the warm garment.

"Now," he said, "I'm going to carry you. Put your arms about my neck."

"Oh, you could not carry me so far,"

came her voice faintly. "It is more than two miles to Biarritz. Leave me here until you can bring help."

His answer was a laugh. What! leave a woman there alone on such a night? That was not the way of the Desbarets!

A

"Do as I tell you!" he commanded in a masterful tone. Then he lifted her very gently in his arms and started down the path. She lay there like a child, with her arms about his neck. She was light and soft and tender. He felt the warmth of her slender, supple body through the drenched clothing. A feeling of exultation came to him as he felt his great strength being put to the service of this helpless woman. lock of her hair blew against his cheek. . . . Ah! It was good to be of use to some one in this world! How selfish his life had been, surrounded as he was with his houses, his horses, dogs, motorcars, and servants! Once he heard a sigh from his fair burden. "Rest your head on my shoulder," he said. "That will be better."

with his own. Then, in a silence broken only by the howling of the elements, he strode on with her through the storm.

As they neared the gates of her villa he spoke again.

"I see it all now," he said. "What a fool I've been! You were the veiled woman on the Lusitania!"

She nodded.

"When we parted in the woods that day," she whispered, "I felt that we must never meet again. I knew that I should not have the strength to avoid you if I remained in Newport. So I went away. I saw you on the ship. It almost killed me not to speak

She obeyed him like a child. A thrill shot through him as he felt her damp, cool cheek against his own.

"Who are you?" he asked at last. "What is your name?"

Until then they had spoken French. Her answer came in English.

"Don't you know?" she whispered. "Can't you guess? I knew you the instant that you spoke, back there in that awful darkness!"

His senses reeled. "My God!" he cried. "It can not be!"

Just then there came a flash of lightning more brilliant than the rest. He looked at her.

"Lorette!" He spoke her name with a sort of sob.

She felt a great shudder pass through his strong frame, and as the lightning played around them she gazed up into his eyes. Her look told him everything everything. She raised her head a little and, letting her eyelids fall, offered him her lips. Reverently Desbarets bent his head and met them

to you. Then I came here. Night after night I have lain sleepless, thinking of you always of you. To-night I could not stand it. I ran out into the storm. I wanted it to beat on me. Then, up there in the dark, I turned my ankle and fell. The rest you know. Oh, isn't it all strange and wonderful!"

"Lorette!" he cried, and his voice was like

a prayer. "Don't you see what it means? Don't you understand? It is Fate! Fate is stronger than we are!"

Her slight frame was convulsed by sudden sobs. "Don't," she begged. "Notnot now!"

He carried her to her villa. Her servants were agitated. Tenderly he laid her on her bed. The doctor came, bandaged her ankle, gave his directions, and departed. Through the long night Desbarets sat beside her. Now and then she stirred a little in her sleep, murmuring his name. The lace yoke. of her sheer robe de nuit slipped from her shoulder. She was like a statue done in rose-tinted ivory a statue of the Sleeping Beauty. And he he was the Prince. Gently, reverently, he bent and kissed her shoulder; and his kiss was like a benediction. . .

Dawn came in through the windows. She awoke. Then they knew that they must part again. It was a sad parting.

Day after day Desbarets sat on a bench on the esplanade and gazed at her bedroom