the first time in her life she found herself hard and fast in the grasp of events over which she had absolutely no control.  She was prisoner to her own good fame.  She dared not declare herself.  She dared not cry out for help.  None would believe her story.  She herself did not fully understand all the circumstances connected with her unlawful banishment from the capital of the proudest and freest republic of the world.

[Illustration:  Josephine St. Auban had abundant time to reflect]

It was while still in this frame of mind that, on the day following, there came to her a messenger bearing the card of Warville Dunwody.  She gazed at it for some moments undecided, debating.  She tried to reason.  Had she trusted rather to woman’s vaticination, matters had been better for her.  What she actually did was to summon Jeanne to complete some hurried toilet preparations.  Then she set out to meet the sender of the card.

There was no occupant of the saloon excepting one, who rose as she entered, hesitating.  On the instant a sudden change swept over Dunwody’s face.  Was it at first assuredness it had borne?  “I am glad that you have thus honored me,” he said simply.

“It is much pleasanter to move about as one may,” she answered.  “But where is our friend, Captain Carlisle, this morning?  Is he ill, or simply unmindful of one so unimportant as myself?  I have not heard from him.”

“He left the boat last night,” answered Dunwody gravely, his eyes fixed on her face.

“Left the boat—­he is gone?  Why, he sent me no word, and I thought—­at least, he said—­”

“He has, Madam, like Cataline, evaded, broken forth, absconded.  But as to leaving word for you, he was not quite so heartless as all that.  I have a message for you.”

With a word craving permission she opened the message.  It was brief.

“MY DEAR COUNTESS:”  “You will be glad to know that so far as your late jailer is concerned, your captivity is at an end.  I am leaving the boat at the next stop, and since that falls in the night-time, I will not disturb you.  Senator Dunwody has kindly consented to act as your guardian in my stead, and from your message to him, I judge that in any case you would prefer his care to mine.”

  “My dear Countess, they are not merely idle words
  when I say to you that you have won my respect and
  admiration.  Be on your guard, and allow me to
  advise you in the interest of yourself and others to
  remain—­silent.” 
    “YOUR OBLIGED AND DUTIFUL SERV’T—­”

No reasons were urged, no apologies offered.  Obviously, the signature was in such circumstances better omitted.

The effect of this note, strange to say, was to fill its recipient not with satisfaction, not even with surprise, but with sudden horror.  She felt abandoned, forsaken, not pausing to reflect that now she had only what she had demanded of her late companion,—­guardian, she now hastily called him, and not jailer.  Unconsciously she half-arose, would have left the room.  Her soul was filled with an instinctive, unformulated dread.