CHAPTER XX. "UNEASY LIES THE HEAD."

The rose-tinted silken blinds were drawn in the boudoir, the house in Lytton Avenue was hushed, there was a smell of eau-de-cologne on the perfumed air. Society deeply regretted to hear that Countess Lalage was suffering from nervous prostration. Leona Lalage lay there pressing her hands to her head fiercely. It was only latterly that she had suffered from these nerve troubles. Hitherto she had regarded herself as absolutely invincible to anything of the kind.

A queer sort of fainting fit had been followed by a ghastly sense of fear. Intrigue had hitherto been the very air that this woman breathed. Now she was frightened, every ring of the bell sent her heart into her mouth.

She was horribly frightened. If she could only have seen her antagonist it would have been bearable. But she was fighting shadows. Whichever way she turned she found herself checkmated and beaten.

Somebody had found her out. It must be so, because all her plans were anticipated by the terrible antagonist who worked in the dark. Her case was much like that of a despairing criminal who takes one huge sum to conceal the loss of another until the inevitable crash comes.

"If my brain gives way now," she muttered, "if my reason plays me false now even for a day I--but I dare not think of it. Well, what do you want?"

A liveried servant looking into the darkened room murmured that Dr. Bruce had arrived. Bruce came in with his softest professional manner. He was sorry to hear that anything was wrong, he asked a great many pertinent questions.

"You have overdone yourself," he said with his cool hand on the fevered pulse. "Few men could stand the strain of your present life. You must go away at once to some very quiet place and be in the open air all day----"

Leona Lalage laughed aloud. The touch of those cool fingers thrilled her. To go away now, to abandon it all just when----. Ah, the thing was impossible. She might just as well have cast herself off Waterloo Bridge.

"Excuse me," she gasped, "I am a little mad today. My dear boy, I cannot go away, the thing is impossible. If you could only look into my heart--but nobody can do that. Oh, Gordon, Gordon!"

Her voice sank to a thrilling whisper. Bruce touched her hand soothingly. The mere contact of his fingers seemed to madden her.

"Don't do that," she said, in the same strained whisper. "If you only knew how I cared for you, how I love you. There is nothing I would not do for you! I am rich and powerful, and men who know say I am beautiful. Take me away, make me your wife, and you shall never know a moment's pain. Your good name is gone, Gordon--but what does that matter. If----"

She paused as Gordon recoiled from her. His eyes were full of loathing.

"Forget this," he said, sternly. "Put it from your mind, as I shall do. It is a passing madness. My future wife would blush if she could hear you."

The woman's eyes dilated, her bosom heaved. She might have been waking as from a trance. She was fighting passionately for the mastery of herself. It was a short, sharp fight, but it left her trembling from head to foot.

"Forget it," she said, hoarsely. "I--I never meant a word of it. Leave me now. Send me something to soothe these frayed nerves of mine. Only leave me alone."

The door closed quietly behind Bruce. Just for a moment the lace-clad figure lay motionless on the couch. Then she rose and swept up and down the room like a tornado. She had shown her hand, she had betrayed her secret, and the man who had her heart scorned her. She was filled with shame and rage and hate.

"I began to be sorry," she murmured. "My remorse spoilt my rest; I thought that all the world would turn from him, and that he would come to me, and then--Well, the dream is dispelled, for he will never come to me now. They say that a woman who loves at forty is capable of every madness. I was mad just now. And now there is but one thing to live for, I will live for that; ah, yes, I will live for that!"

She sat down quietly for a moment with her hands locked together. That indomitable will was acting on the racked body. She crept upstairs before dinner white and shaky; she came down shimmering in white, and diamonds in her magnificent hair and corsage, smiling, brilliant, as if she had the whole world at her feet. Hetty looked at her with dazed admiration.

"That dreadful headache has gone," the Countess cried. "I am myself again. We will dine quietly together, you and I, and go to hear Melba presently. Come, you can leave Mamie for just one night."

Leona Lalage swept into her box later on with the air of one who feels that she is the centre of all attraction. Society was charmed and gratified, distinguished men dropped into the box on the grand tier, and whispered their congratulations. The brilliant stream of diamonds in her hair was no brighter than the woman's eyes.

The house was fairly full on the fall of the curtain after the first act of the new opera. There was light and life and movement there. And Melba was scoring new triumphs. The curtain fell on the second act amidst a crash of applause and the waving of handkerchiefs. Leona Lelage had an artistic soul, and she was moved.

"Wonderful!" she cried. "Ah, to have a gift like that. To think that the human voice----"

She paused as some one entered the box. A slight dark man, almost a half caste, with black hair and glasses. He was immaculately dressed; his style was quiet, with a touch of humility about it.

"Countess," he said. "I kiss your hand. I have come from Paris to see you. If I could have a word with you alone----"

"Louis," the Countess cried, "ah, this is good of you! We will have a little chat in the foyer. Hetty, will you keep guard till I return."

Her smile was light and pleasant. But it faded to a white mask once she and her companion were outside the box.

"Quick," she whispered. "Quick. Has the blow fallen?"

"A blow," said the other. "That is a poor word. It is absolute destruction."