Once, in a bitter mood, Diana had taxed her with it.

“You must feel satisfied now that you have achieved your object,” she told her.

The Russian, idly improvising on the piano, dropped her hands from the keys, and her eyes held a queer kind of pain in them as she made answer.

“And what exactly did you think my object was?” she queried.

“Surely it was obvious?” replied Diana lightly.  “When Max and I were together, you never ceased to sow discord between us—­though why you hated him so, I cannot tell—­and now that we have separated, I suppose you are content.”

“Content?” Olga laughed shortly.  “I never wanted you to separate.  And”—­she hesitated—­“I never hated Max Errington.”

“I don’t believe it!” The assertion leaped involuntarily from Diana’s lips.

“I can understand that,” Olga spoke with a curious kind of patience.  “But, believe it or not as you will, I was working for quite other ends.  And I’ve failed,” she added dispiritedly.

With the opening of the autumn season and the ensuing rebirth of musical and theatrical life, London received an unexpected shock.  It was announced that Adrienne de Gervais was retiring from her position as leading lady at the Premier Theatre, and for a few days after the launching of this thunderbolt the theatre-going world hummed with the startling news, while a dozen rumours were set on foot to account for what must surely prove little less than a disaster to the management of the Premier.

But, as usual, after the first buzz of surprise and excitement had spent itself, people settled down, and reluctantly accepted the official explanation furnished by the newspapers—­namely, that the popular actress had suffered considerably in health from the strain of several successive heavy seasons and intended to winter abroad.

To Diana the news yielded an odd sense of comfort.  Somehow the thought of Adrienne’s absence from England seemed to bring Max nearer, to make him more her own again.  Even though they were separated, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that the woman whose close friendship with her husband had helped to make shipwreck of their happiness was going out of his life, though it might be only for a little time.

One day, impelled by an irresistible desire to test the truth of the newspaper reports, Diana took her way to Somervell Street, pausing opposite the house that had been Adrienne’s.  She found it invested with a curious air of unfamiliarity, facing the street with blank and shuttered windows, like blind eyes staring back at her unrecognisingly.

So it was true!  Adrienne had gone away and the house was empty and closed.

Diana retraced her steps homeward, conscious of a queer feeling of satisfaction.  Often the thought that Max and Adrienne might be together had tortured her almost beyond endurance, adding a keener edge to the pain of separation.