at six forty-two the duchess of claremanagh descended from a plebeian taxicab in front of her pretentious home. she had sent away her own car, before going to the lorne, and though there was no wrong in her secret, she was weighed down by a sense of guilt as she went to her room. this annoyed her, because the one guilty person in the house was pat!

she had heard, toward the end of her conversation with jack, that the pearls had come while he was with the duke; but the girl was too wretched to care. how did she know that the story about monsieur mayen was not a "fake"? it was quite possible that pavoya had had the pearls for months, and had only now given them up, under cover of mayen's name, and his messenger on the britannia. juliet felt as emmy west had expected her to feel: she hated the pearls! whatever the truth was, she could take no pleasure in wearing them. all the same, she would wear them, to show curiosity-mongers that they were not in lyda pavoya's hands. she would wear them this very night.

she and claremanagh were engaged to dine at the van estens', and he had insisted in the morning that he would be well enough to go. now, for all she could tell, he might have changed his mind, and 'phoned that his cold would keep him at home. that excuse should not affect her, however. if he did not bring or send the pearls to her room, simone should take him a note. in this, juliet would say, not that jack had told her, but that she "supposed the messenger had arrived," and she would ask for the pearls to wear at nancy's dinner party—ask for them not as a favour, but because of the right she had, as duchess of claremanagh.

"madame is very late!" were simone's first words as juliet flung open her bedroom door. "i began to be anxious."

juliet glanced at her wrist-watch and a french clock on the mantel. it was true, she was late! she had a new gown which there had been no time to try, and dinner was at eight. the girl's nerves, tensely strained all day, began to get out of control. she was "jumpy" and cross as simone unfastened the many little hidden hooks and tiny lace buttonholes of the "dawn-cloud" dress. simone's hands were cold as ice, she complained. she hoped simone wasn't "sickening for something!" then, it seemed that the quaint grey hat had spoiled her hair, which usually remained in perfect order throughout the day. it had to be let down; and being immensely long and thick, would take twenty minutes to rearrange. never, never had simone been so awkward! her fingers were all thumbs!

for a few moments, in her need of haste and her nervous agitation, juliet forgot the crying question of the pearls. but a knock at the door which separated pat's room from hers set every pulse a-throb. he had come, of his own accord!

the blood rushed to her cheeks, and as she turned to the opening door, she looked gloriously beautiful. her eyes met claremanagh's with the desperate appeal of a loving, tortured soul, and he was disarmed.

"could you let simone go for a few minutes?" he asked. "i should like to speak to you alone."

a few seconds ago juliet had been fuming because every instant counted. but suddenly time ceased to be of importance. she didn't care how late she might be for nancy's dinner. she didn't care if she were too late to go at all!

simone, who knew that things were not as they should be, expected her mistress coldly to refuse the duke. she was intensely surprised to be sent away and told not to return for fifteen minutes. sensitively jealous, the maid resented being sent out of the room for ce traitre, as she mentally called claremanagh. what a different scene there would be between husband and wife if she had betrayed to the duchess the secret of the afternoon! to do so would satisfy her love of drama, and her pique against the duke; but simone knew too well "which side her bread was buttered." for one thing, the duchess would not hear such a tale from a servant, even her trusted maid. the duke might be sent "packing" by the heiress, but so would simone! and for another thing, there must be no possible suspicion when the "whisperer" of the inner circle whispered next, as to where the whisper had started. it would not do for simone to know that lyda pavoya had called on the duke of claremanagh in his american wife's absence.

the instant the frenchwoman was out of the room, pat came close to juliet. he was dressed for dinner, all but coat and waistcoat, and juliet adored him thus, in his glittering white expanse of evening shirt. she had often told him so.

"you were not very kind to me this morning," he said, looking down at her, his face graver than she had ever seen it before this day. "i may as well tell you i was a good deal hurt, and angry, too—though i haven't deserved too well of you, perhaps. but to see you as you are now makes me forget everything, except that we've been dear lovers, and that you're the most beautiful girl on earth—my girl! you look just as you looked that evening at harridge's, a million miles away, in old london—the night before our wedding when i came in suddenly, and you'd been washing your hair. do you still hate your poor romeo, giullietta mia, or do you feel like forgetting, too, and beginning all over again?"

"i never hated you—not for a minute!" cried juliet. "i thought you hated me!"

"then you were jolly well mistaken," said pat.

they gazed at each other like two fencers, for a moment; then juliet sprang up, and held out her arms. he clasped her, and kissed her hair, her face, her bare white neck. something he held in his hand, out of her sight behind his back, fell to the floor. she started at the sound, and he let her go, laughing like his old self.

"'history repeats'!" he exclaimed. "do you remember the little box i brought you, with its blobby seals? well, i have another sealed box for you to-night. you're to open it as you opened that one, and you will find the same thing inside. only, it will be the same thing with a difference."

he picked up the packet from the floor, and handed it to juliet with a flourish. "voilà, madame! les plus belles chases, pour la plus belle dame."

"the pearls!" juliet breathed.

"the pearls!" echoed pat.

the girl was thrilled. how could she have hated the things so angrily an hour ago? her whole mood concerning them and concerning life had changed under pat's kisses. she was going to love his pearls for his sake, and the sake of their own romance!

"why, the seals haven't been broken!" she exclaimed, as she took the box.

"no, i was determined you and you alone should do the breaking."

"but—didn't the messenger insist?"

"he did. two can play at that game, though!"

"what about the receipt? i should have thought he'd object——"

"'object' is a mild word. i convinced him in the end, however—if not that i was right, anyhow that i meant to have my own way. darling, this is a happy moment for me—though i didn't expect to be happy to-night. break the seals. open the box. and i shall know by your eyes what you think of its contents."

with trembling fingers juliet obeyed. each seal was so perfect, it seemed a shame to shatter the delicate eye in crimson wax. laughing, she remarked that it was clear no thief had touched the box. pat agreed, and took from her the waterproof wrapping as she peeled it off. within was a wooden box, with a sliding lid, such as french jewellers use. claremanagh had bought it himself, at mayen's request, he explained to juliet; and the seal (made also by his ring) which held the cover in place had been pressed by his hand in the presence of his friend, the "super money-lender."

"by jove, i'm proud of it!" he exclaimed. "it's a work of art. i'd forgotten how good it was. the best seal i've ever done, and i've called myself an expert—a genie of the ring!"

it needed a pair of scissors to loosen the wax from the wood. then juliet slipped off the lid, and took from the box something wrapped in a handkerchief of fine irish linen. "you'll find my monogram on that rag," said pat, apparently enjoying himself. "mayen would make me wrap the case with the pearls in something that belonged to me—something that couldn't be copied easily by a thief. my hair wasn't quite long enough to do up a parcel in, and this was the only other thing we could think of!"

while he gaily explained, juliet slowly—tantalizing herself—unwound the linen folds. so doing, she smelt a faint fragrance of tobacco—pat's special tobacco which left its odour on all his clothes. it had seemed exquisitely exciting to the girl when she was engaged to claremanagh, and it was more so than ever to-night, when they were having this heavenly reconciliation—a reconciliation partly due to jack's advice and his defence of the duke. but it was odd that the scent should have lasted all these months!

juliet exclaimed over this to pat, but he accounted for it by reminding her how closely the handkerchief had been shut up in the box.

at last she was looking at the jewel-case which had once belonged to the love-sick tsarina! it was of white velvet, creamy now with age, and stamped with crowns in gold, pathetically and appropriately dimmed. the catch was curious and beautiful: a big cabochon ruby shaped like a heart. juliet pushed it, and lifted the satin lid. there, on the cushion, lay the long rope of pearls curled up like a snake, with the curious diamond clasp for its head.

the girl had expected to cry out in amazed admiration at sight of the wonderful thing—"claremanagh's ewe lamb." she had expected to be literally dazzled. but instead, she suffered a shock of disappointment.

with all the will in the world to be pleased and grateful, she was dumb. she could think of nothing to say; and she tingled with embarrassment under her husband's eyes.

"well, darling," he said, after a few seconds of waiting. "don't the poor pearls come up to your hopes?"

"oh, yes!" she forced herself to answer. "aren't they big? aren't they blue? i never saw any so-called 'blue pearls' so really blue as these."

"all the same, you are disappointed," pat judged, his eyes on her face. "don't you think by this time i know your tones and your expressions? out with it, jule! bless you, i shan't be hurt. i didn't make the pearls, you know. and you're a spoiled pet of fortune, brought up from your babyhood to play with better toys than these. you could have had pearls as big as plums, in a rope to your feet, if you'd wanted 'em. only your taste was too good. what's the matter with these baubles?"

"why," the girl hesitated, "if i must say what i think you know i am supposed to be a bit of an expert, in my little amateur way, it seems to me these pearls aren't as lustrous as they ought to be. perhaps they're 'sick'. they may need sea-water, or something. yet they haven't the symptoms of 'dying' pearls. they haven't lost their colour. they've got almost too much—to look real."

"they're real enough!"

"of course they must be. and the clasp is charming, isn't it? an eye made of a blue sapphire, set in white diamonds, rimmed with tiny black ones; an eye like the design of your seal, except that this one looks to the right, and——"

"to the right!" pat caught the words from her mouth. "impossible!"

juliet stared. "but it does. you may see for yourself."

"good god!" there was horror in his voice.

juliet could not understand. this scene began to feel like a queer dream. "what is the matter?" she asked.

"give me the thing!"

she handed him the rope.

he glared at the clasp as if the diamond and sapphire eye were a miniature head of medusa. then he turned to her with a dazed expression, still in silence.

"you frighten me," she faltered.

"you—you say you're an expert in pearls," he said. "how can you tell real ones from false?"

"one very simple way is to touch them to the tip of the tongue," juliet explained, bewildered. "real pearls are always cold. false ones can be warmish. besides, the surface feels different. and even if the weight is right——"

"test these," pat said.

the girl took back the gleaming blue rope, and lifted the largest pearls to her lips.

"they are—false," she gasped, after an instant's pause.

"you are sure?"

"yes. i am sure."