"And he was in love with you?"

I nodded.

"And you?"

"I thought it would be good for me ... and for Katie . . . not to be alone."

"My poor Lenore, so you were lonely."

"No . . . no. I had my grandmother. I had my daughter. I had good friends but..."

"And the thriving business. Yes, you had much. But you thought this Drake could make you happier. But he married Julia . . . and you were hurt and then you came to France with your father . . . and I found you. It is all becoming very clear to me. I am a little jealous of this Drake.''

"Please, this is too serious a matter for meaningless gallantry."

"Is that how you regard me ... as a flippant gallant?"

"Where are you staying?" I asked.

"At the Park Hotel."

"And you are . . . comfortable?"

"I do not know yet. I took my room ... I leave my bags and I come at once to you.''

"It was good of you."

"I will go now. I will see you soon. Do not fret. This will pass. The truth will be discovered."

"I appreciate your coming," I said.

''But of course I came.''

He took my hand and kissed it.

When he had gone I realized that he had taken the photograph with him, and that took away the pleasure I had had in seeing him again.

Depression descended on me once more.

How long the days were! I seemed to be walking about in a dream. I was deeply apprehensive.

I had visitors-steely-eyed men who hid their suspicion under cool politeness. The endless questions began again. I could see that they were trying to trap me into betraying something which would assure them of my guilt.

I wondered how long it would be before they came to a definite conclusion.

I believed Drake was undergoing the same sort of interrogation. The papers announced that the police were continuing with their enquiries. There was an account of Drake's career, of his marriage to Julia, one of the Sallongers, it was stated, a member of the silk manufacturing family; Mr. Charles Sallonger was the one who had revolutionized the silk industry by putting on the market one of the finest silks ever known. There were accounts of how I had married Philip Sallonger who had shot himself shortly after the marriage. They had cast me in a very dramatic role-a woman whose husband had killed himself almost immediately after the marriage must be a femme fatale.

People paused to look at the salon as they passed. I did not go out during the day. It was too embarrassing to do so.

It was comforting to know that Katie was not here. She would be completely ignorant of what was going on and that was how I wanted it to be.

I did not know what would become of me, but I had been made to feel that I was under suspicion. I thanked God for Grand'mere as I had so many times in my life. If anything should happen to me she would look after Katie as well as could be possible in the circumstances. So would Cassie and the Countess. I wished they were both with us now, but I must rejoice that Katie was in their care.

Sometimes I found myself thinking of the Comte. I kept going over in my mind that moment when he had entered the room. What joy that had brought me! I had let my feelings for him go too far. I had pretended that this was not so-but of course I was wrong. I had betrayed myself to myself in those few moments.

I wished I had stayed in France. I wished I had had the courage to continue to see him. Then I should not have been here when this frightening thing had happened. But when I had seen him and learned that he had come to England to see me-in spite of Grand'mere's disapproval of him-that wild joy had temporarily obliterated everything else and really explained my feelings towards him-and there was no point in denying them.

But he had disappointed me, as I should have known he always would. He could not be faithful even for a short while. While he was saying he had come to see me, he was so taken with the picture of the beautiful Italian that he had forgotten me and my predicament in his admiration for her.

And he had taken the picture.

It was a strange coincidence that he should have known her, but then he was a much travelled man and he had lived on the borders of Italy and would doubtless have been in that country often. They must have met at some gathering for he had recognized her at once-and from that moment it had seemed that the picture obsessed him.

That was how it would always be with him. I had been a fool to let myself dream dreams which had no foundation in reality.

Grand'mere was right. What would it mean with him? A few weeks of happiness . . . and then he would make the excuses . . . oh, very gallantly, of course, very suavely-and then off on the next pursuit.

I had not seen him for four days. Why did he not call? He had said he would come and see me ... and he had been near.

I must forget him. But how could I?

I felt a kind of obsession. I had to see him. I had to tell him that I was hurt because he had not come to see me as he had promised. It was a humiliating thing to do, but I couldn't help it. I had to know.

It was dusk. I put on my outdoors clothes and went out. It was not far to the Park Hotel. I slipped in through the swing doors and approached the desk.

"Yes, Madam?" said the clerk.

"I wanted to know if the Comte de Carsonne is in?"

The man looked at me in surprise. "Madam, the Comte left some days ago."

"Oh," I said faintly. "I see."

He consulted the book. "Yes, he left on the afternoon of the 14th."

It was the day after I had seen him. He had taken the picture and gone back . . . without even telling me that he was going. He must have gone straight back to the hotel after leaving me and made plans for departure.

I felt desperately unhappy.

It is typical of him! I told myself angrily. But anger did not help me. I felt lost, bewildered, and the clouds of apprehension which had been hanging over me so long seemed heavier and closer than ever. I had never felt so wretched in my life.

Tension was mounting. I endured more visits and more questions. I felt they were closing in on me. I wondered what Drake was feeling.

There was speculation in the press. It was thought that the police would soon be making an announcement. That, I presumed, meant an arrest. Would it be Drake, the husband? Husbands are always suspects on such occasions. Could it be Lenore Sallonger- the ''mysterious widow,'' they were calling me-the famous dressmaker whose husband had committed suicide? I was tired of it... tired of it all.

And so it went on.

Grand'mere and I would sit together in the evenings, not bothering to light the gas. We sat in the dark, holding hands sometimes. She, too, had never been so frightened and wretched in her life.

We did not speak of the trouble. Neither of us had anything more to say. She would dwell on the past and tell me little incidents from my childhood, and then suddenly her voice would break and she would be unable to go on.

I used to let my mind wander back to those days in France. I thought of the chateau and wondered what he was doing now and whether he had been successful in his search for Madalenna.

I tried to tell myself that it was for the best that I should learn how he was before I made a fool of myself. Thinking of him was painful so I tried to think of Drake.

Grand'mere, as she often did, seemed to read my thoughts.

"When this is all over," she said, adding firmly: "as it will be ... Drake will be free. In time . . ."

"I don't want to think of that, Grand'mere,"

"When the present is hard to bear it is well to look ahead. Trouble doesn't last forever. This time next year ... He is a good man, Lenore, and good men are scarce. He loves you. I know he does. He was rash. He should have spoken about his suspicions of your father. It was foolish of him but we all do foolish things at times. Mon Dieu, poor man, he has paid for his folly. But the days will come when he is free . . . and then . . ."

"Grand'mere, please don't talk of it. I could not marry Drake."

"That's nonsense, child. He loves you. He would be the best of husbands. You have suffered a great deal. Philip was good . . . you could have been so happy with him. You must think no more of the Comte. He is no good to you and no good to any woman."

"I am not sure of anything, Grand'mere."

"Of course you are not. This is too close. But when it is over, Drake will be waiting . . . and this will seem like a nightmare."

I did not answer. It was no use trying to explain my feelings to Grand'mere. I was not even sure of them myself.

Then the miracle happened.

"New developments in the Aldringham case," said the headlines. "The police are anxious to meet a woman who visited the house on several occasions. They believe she could help them with their enquiries."

Two weeks passed, during which there was no mention of the case.

I was not now troubled by callers who wanted me to answer questions. It almost seemed as though the case had been set aside.

Then came that wonderful day when the Comte returned to London. He came to the salon and said he wished to see me ... alone.

He managed to evade Grand'mere and when I heard that he was waiting in the reception room I wanted to refuse to see him. How dared he return casually like this after he had left so abruptly! Grand'mere was right. I should not see him. But of course I went down.

There he was suave as ever, smiling, taking my hand, kissing it in the courtly way which I had always found so enchanting.

I said: "So you are back in London?"

''It would appear so," he said, his eyes mocking-just as they always had during our meetings in France; no one would have thought that I was a woman with a possible charge of murder hanging over me.

"I trust you have had a good stay in France."

''Most profitable.''

"And you were successful in your search for Madalenna de' Pucci?"

"Very successful. I could not have guessed how pleasing it would be."

''Congratulations.''

"Enough," he said. "I have something to tell you which will be of great interest to you.''

"Regarding you and this lady?"

"Indeed it concerns her. ..."

I thought: Oh no. He is just being cruel. He knows my feelings. I have betrayed them. He knows a great deal about women. He just wants to torment me. Charles first. . . now him.

"It also concerns you . . . deeply," he went on. "Shall we be serious? This is a very serious matter.''

"About you and Madalenna de' Pucci. I don't..."

"It concerns you, too. Come, sit down, so that I can see you. I have been working hard on your behalf. It saddened me to see you as you were . . . and as you are now. So I determined to make you as you were before. So I went to work. First let us take the beautiful Italian. I told you I had met her before."

"Yes, you did mention that. You took the picture of her."

"It was also a picture of you, was it not? Now listen to me. I was greatly interested to see the lady because I knew her . . . but not as Madalenna de' Pucci. That, I have proved now, was not her real name."

"Who is she then?"

"She is, in a manner of speaking, a connection of yours. Her name is Adele St. Allengere.''

I stared at him in astonishment.

"You see it was too fortuitous. People are never careful enough. There are these little slip-ups and these result in the big scheme falling to the ground. You have seen something of life in Villers-Mure and in Carsonne. We are a fiery people. You know of the feud between my house and that of St. Allengere. Vendetta. It is a common word on the border because of our volatile neighbours. We love and hate . . . vehemently. There is much to tell you. I began to piece things together when you told me so much, and because I did not wish to see you unhappy living under a cloud of suspicion as you would have done perhaps all your life, I determined to unravel the mystery. Also, it intrigued me. I have put the confession in the hands of the French police who are now in touch with those in this country. Soon the mystery will be revealed but I wished to tell you first."

"You are keeping me in suspense."

"You deserve it for thinking I had left you to go in search of the beautiful Italian. You did believe that, did you not? And it was true. But not for the reason you had decided on. You were most displeased."

"Please tell me what all this is about?"

"It is all about Vendetta and a wicked old man who is now considerably chastened. You were right. I had gone back to France to look for Adele St. Allengere. I was determined to have the whole story from her. It is not difficult for me. I have many people working for me. I told you we were feudal in our part of the world. My word is law and if I say, 'Find Adele St. Allengere,' she will be found."

"I still can't understand what all this is about."

"I am telling it badly. I will begin at the beginning. Two brothers went to France when their father was alive. They were Charles the elder, and Philip, who was to become your husband. Charles was the lover of pleasure. Philip was seriously interested in the business of producing silk. They visited Villers-Mure where they were accepted as distant connections of the family ... the Huguenot branch. The old man-stern bigot that he was-was not pleased about this, and the displeasure of the Catholic St. Allengeres towards the Huguenots has lasted for three hundred years. But they were members of the family; moreover he wanted to know how the silk industry was progressing in England. So they were accepted into the house. He saw that Philip was the one who cared about the business. Charles he had dismissed as no good.

"Now, he had had a group of men working for some time on a special kind of silk which was to be different from any other kind which had ever been produced. It was very secret. The old man's granddaughter Heloi'se was being courted by one of the men who was working on this project so that she was aware of what was going on and he gave her access to the particular section where the research work was in progress. This would have been forbidden had it been known. Charles Sallonger was a very plausible young man, handsome too, apparently; he was different from anyone Heloise had ever known before. She fell in love with him. She must have talked to him about the secret work which was being done and he prevailed on her to show him the formula. This, poor lovesick girl, she did. Then . . . the brothers departed. Heloise realized that she had-as they say-given herself to a philanderer. More than that she had betrayed her family's secret to him. When it was learned that the English had put this special silk on the market and claimed credit for having discovered the method of producing it, the St. Allengere household was in turmoil. Unable to bear the shame of having betrayed her family to a false lover, Heloise drowned herself in the river which wound its way through the grounds of the house. She left a note, however, in which she explained what she had done, but she omitted to mention her lover's name. As Charles had appeared to be indifferent to business, it was naturally concluded that Philip was the thief and the false lover. You now know something of what the old man is like. He demanded vengeance and set out to get it."

"So Philip was to have been murdered. ..."

''Yes. The first attempt went wrong-in the case of the Italian Lorenzo. The overturned carriage was a way of getting into the house and when she was there Adele with her servant stole the gun from the gun room. They took it with them when they left. Then one of Alphonse's hired killers was commanded to lure Philip into the forest and shoot him. This is what he did making it appear suicide."

"It is all becoming horribly clear."

"Then, recently, the fact that Charles was the culprit was revealed."