the two stared at each other in silence, and both were pale.

juliet's mind was confused. "the pearls false!" she tried to hammer the words into her brain, and understand fully what the thing would mean for her and pat. she thought of louis mayen, the "super money-lender," who had kept the pearls for months, and supposed that claremanagh also must be thinking of him.

"what a treacherous, horrible man!" she broke out, at last. the duke stared, almost stupidly—if he could be stupid.

"who is treacherous—horrible?" he stammered.

"why, your friend mayen, of course!" she explained. "my poor pat!"

comprehension dawned in claremanagh's eyes. "oh, mayen had nothing to do with this!" he assured her.

"who else, then?" juliet persisted. "the purser on the ship, who had the box in his safe, coming over? but he didn't have the seal. mayen had it. he—or his messenger could——"

"put that idea out of your head, my darling," urged claremanagh. "mayen had the seal, and of course it's on the cards that defasquelle, his messenger, might have stolen it or had an imitation one made. but neither of them had the——"

abruptly the duke stopped. he had been talking fast and eagerly, and he pulled himself up so short that it was as if he stumbled. juliet had been examining the quaint clasp of the false pearls, which she still had in her hand, but that shocked pause brought her eyes to her husband's face. it had been pale and strained, but now there was a look upon it of physical suffering.

"you've thought of the one who did it!" she cried. "someone you care for!"

by an intense effort claremanagh seemed to withdraw all expression from his face. it became dull, like a handsome mask. "i wish i had thought of any one," he said. "no such luck."

juliet had pitied him unselfishly at first, for after all the pearls were his, not hers, and the loss—sentimental and material—would be very great if the tsarina's pearls were gone. but his look, his changed tone, and the cloud that seemed to rise between them like a mist roused her vague resentment. she felt as if she had tried to comfort him and he had pushed her away.

"pat!" she exclaimed, sharply. "it's no use your trying to put me off. you have thought who changed the pearls—or anyhow, of a person who might have done it. you've simply got to tell me. i have a right to know."

"my dear child," he protested. "you do spring to the wildest conclusions!"

juliet's anger rose. "the whole thing is wild. only wild conclusions are of any use. if you don't want me to try and help you, i won't. but i can't prevent myself from seeing one thing that perhaps you don't see yet. if the real thief isn't soon found, and this story gets out, there will be some horrid gossip about you."

claremanagh flushed scarlet. "i do see," he said. "at least, i see what you're hinting at. if i purloin my own pearls, and secretly sell them, while getting credit at the same time for giving them to my wife, i bring off a very neat coup. that's what you mean, isn't it?"

the thing sounded so crudely villainous when put into words that juliet was ashamed. but there was a fierce light in the eyes which until to-day had never looked at her except in love—or seeming love. juliet would not let her husband fancy for an instant that he had made her flinch. "yes, that's what i mean," she answered. "one's dear friends are capable of any insinuation."

"and even those dearer and nearer than friends!" pat flung at her. "oh, i realize that i'm the classic target. a poor irish peer—the poorest of the lot!—who dares to marry america's richest girl. no beastly trick too vile to believe of him! of course a blighter like that couldn't have married the girl for love."

to hear the words spoken, even in bitterest sarcasm, was like the prick of a knife. juliet had pushed them out of her own mind so often that it was sharpest anguish to have them thrust into it by pat's adored lips. if he loved her, she could not see how it was possible for him to speak like that! in thinking this, she pitied herself desperately, and forgot her own words which had lashed him to retaliation. she forgot, too, how that very morning her lips had flung this very taunt. she had shown him sharply how much her own she considered her fortune, her house, and everything he shared as her husband.

it seemed to her that now he was inadvertently confessing, rather than sneering at possible accusers. juliet defended her own attractions pitifully, yet there was nothing pitiful in her look. she loomed tall and aggressive, and cruelly beautiful, with blazing eyes and cheeks.

"a great many men have told me they loved me, and that no one could help loving me for myself, but i never believed any of them till i met you; and then i was a conceited fool to think you could care for me after lyda pavoya."

pat started as if she had boxed his ears: and juliet, too, was surprised. she had not meant to say that. the thing had said itself. for an instant his eyes flamed. then their fire died out, and left them cold. he looked disgusted. "i told you once that i had never loved mademoiselle pavoya," he said. "one isn't used to having one's word doubted. it's rather humiliating to have it happen with one's own wife. but putting that aside, why not keep to the point? why bring up the lady's name when we are discussing quite a different affair—the affair of these pearls?"

out of claremanagh's coldness a demon was born, and flew straight to juliet's heart. for an instant she lost all sense of her own love for her husband. she hated him and wished to hurt him as much as she could, because it seemed that he had gone out of his way to hurt her. she tingled all over with indignant humiliation. it was as if pat had said, "i happen to be your husband, but you are only a commoner with no traditions of fine breeding behind you, while i am a man whose ancestors might have had yours for servants. no wonder you have no intuitive idea of decent decorum."

"is it a different affair?" she cried. "or is it one single affair—the affair of lyda pavoya and your pearls?"

again the words had spoken themselves, but a flare of enlightenment came with them. surely something had made her speak. something which knew what she hadn't thought of till this moment: that lyda pavoya had taken the pearls.

how she could possibly have got them, if they had ever been in louis mayen's keeping, juliet could not see. but she had them—she had them! that was clear: and the fact would account for pat's sudden breaking off of a sentence. he had begun to defend mayen and defasquelle. "but neither one of them had the——" he had said, and stopped short, with an awful look on his face—the look of seeing something which no one else must be allowed to see. what thing was there that mayen and his messenger had not, which another person might have had? a thing which would make theft possible? a person who must be protected at any price?

juliet could not guess yet what the thing might be, but the second guess was all too easy.

this time the duke showed no sign of surprise, therefore he was not surprised. he merely looked more disgusted than before, which made his lack of love for his wife and his wish to defend the polish dancer more evident to juliet's racked mind.

"when i gave you my word about not loving mademoiselle pavoya i gave it also about the pearls," claremanagh said. "i told you then that she had never had them. i can only repeat the statement, since you seem to have forgotten."

"i have forgotten nothing!" cried juliet. "it's a man's code of honour, i suppose, to defend a woman, no matter how. but if that's not so—if you don't care enough for lyda pavoya to lie for her to your wife, i'd like to know how you'll answer this question: do you swear that you don't suspect her of somehow stealing the real pearls, and putting imitation ones in their place?"

claremanagh's face changed. he had been frankly though coldly furious. now he looked stricken. "i would lie for no one on earth, except for you, and then only to save your life," he said. "it's an insult from you to me to ask that i should swear such a thing.

"very well, then, your simple word is enough," said juliet. "give it that you don't think pavoya has the pearls."

claremanagh was silent, his eyes upon her. and in that silence, short as it was, juliet heard a tiny voice speak. it whispered: "the thing pavoya had, which the other didn't have, was a copy. she had a copy of the pearls."

"i could not believe such a thing," the duke answered. "i have known mademoiselle pavoya for years. she is a good woman."

juliet laughed, and laughing flung the false pearls on the floor. "'a good woman!' you have original ideas! i've heard a lot of things about her from a lot of people, but never that before."

"because only malicious speeches are amusing, they are the ones 'a lot of people'—the lot we know—mostly make."

"pooh!" sneered juliet. "i see the whole thing now—except how she got the real pearls. but this imitation rope she had. you can't face me, and say she hadn't."

"i'll say nothing more on the subject while you're in this mood," returned claremanagh.

"all right, if you think prevarication more honourable than lying straight out," panted juliet, holding down sobs. "but you won't do her any good with me—or yourself either. you were scared blue when i said the eye of the clasp looked to the right instead of to the left, like the eye on your seal ring. you'd hardly believe it till you had to. then the whole thing grew clear to you, as it's growing for me now. this copy existed. the clasp was made the wrong way, by mistake or on purpose. as soon as i spoke, you knew what had happened. your first thought—as soon as you could think—was to save that woman. but you shan't save her! i——"

"do you intend to make a scandal of this beastly business?" the duke cut her short with violence. "if you do, you will repent it all your life."

juliet quivered. "i don't care about my life now," she said. "you've spoilt it. you couldn't punish me any more than you've punished me already—for loving and trusting you. so it doesn't matter what i——"

"it matters immensely," he broke in again. "you are cruel to yourself—to me—to a woman who has never injured you. when i say that you'll repent making a scandal, i don't mean because i'd try to 'punish' you. my god, no! you'll repent because you will be doing a great injustice which can't possibly be repaired. and at heart, when you're true to yourself, you are just."

"it's no use your trying to appeal to my sense of justice," juliet warned him. "that's the last thing for you to bring up!"

he looked at her very sadly, very strangely, it seemed to his wife, as if anger were dying out, and a great sorrow had taken its place. but that was only his cleverness—his deadly, irish cleverness, of course!

"what, then, do you intend to do?" he asked.

once more confusion fogged the girl's brain, a desolate confusion like chaos after ordered beauty; the end of all joy, all loveliness.

"i don't know yet," she said, dully. "i shall have to think."

as juliet spoke, fingers tapped lightly on the door: simone's fingers, no doubt. her fifteen minutes of banishment had passed.

"come in!" juliet spoke mechanically; and if she wished to withdraw the words, it was too late. the frenchwoman opened the door.

"madame la duchesse is ready for me to finish dressing her?" she asked.

vaguely it struck juliet that simone's voice was not quite natural. she had probably been listening at the keyhole, and had heard everything. but, on second thoughts, what did it matter? juliet told herself miserably that nothing could be the same as it had been. she could not go on after this, living with pat as his wife. all the world would soon know that there was trouble between them, and simone's knowing first was of little importance. she was only a servant, and luckily a loyal and discreet servant.

as juliet paused a second before speaking, claremanagh answered for her: "the duchess is feeling very tired, and as you know, i'm not well. we've about decided to telephone that we can't go out," he said.

"but not quite decided," his wife amended. "i think that if you prefer to stay at home, i shall go and make your excuses in person."

pat showed surprise. he had taken it completely for granted that she would not dream of dining at the van estens'. "no," he decided, after an instant's thought. "if you are equal to it, so am i."

"he's afraid to trust me alone," juliet told herself, "for fear i shall say something." "very well," she said aloud. "you better hurry up and get ready, then. we're late as it is."

pat did not answer. without another word or look he went to his room and shut the door between. evidently nickson had not been with his master to-night. juliet wondered where the man was, and with a bitter sense of amusement pictured "old nick's" emotions if she began a suit for divorce against the duke. she had always liked the queer fellow, who had been as fine a soldier, pat said, as he was an indifferent valet: had liked him partly because of his thrilled admiration of her. deeply as he adored her at present, however, that love was nothing beside what he felt for the duke. it made juliet a shade more miserable than before to know that the worshipping nick would soon cease to worship. so far, she had kept back her tears, but they were becoming irrepressible when simone exclaimed: "oh, the wonderful pearls! madame la duchesse has let them fall on the floor."

the current of juliet's thoughts changed instantly, and the brimming tears dried at their source.

"the wonderful pearls!" she repeated, with infinite bitterness, sure as she was that simone had been at the keyhole. but the look of pained astonishment on the woman's face made her wonder if, after all, simone had heard "everything." perhaps she had caught parts only of the conversation, and had been trying to find out "for sure" whether she had heard aright.

juliet had perfect trust in simone, so far as discretion was concerned, but it was within her estimate of the maid's character that she should eavesdrop. people of her class did that sort of thing and thought it no harm. it made the drama of their lives! simone would keep her knowledge or her suspicion to herself, of course, until whatever was fated to happen had happened. then, no doubt, she would tell her friends that she'd "known all along." still, juliet suddenly disliked the thought of being pitied even by her maid. simone was aware that her mistress had looked forward to getting the pearls. it was humiliating that she should have instead a mere string of wax or fish-scale beads! if simone had heard, it couldn't be helped. if she hadn't, however, she should remain in ignorance.

"they're not quite as glorious as i expected them to be," juliet remarked. "i suppose it's like that with everything in life."

"but they are very beautiful," ventured simone with the privileged air of the old and trusted servant which she put on like a sort of chain armour at times. "will madame la duchesse wear them to-night?"

juliet was taken aback. she had, of course, intended to wear the tsarina pearls. she had told herself that she would do so, if only that everyone should see that she, not pavoya, had them. but since discovering the truth about them—why, it had not occurred to her that she could wear the things! rather would she have thrown them into the fire. suddenly, however, she saw the matter from another point of view. suppose she did appear wearing the rope? to do so would give her time to think. and it would be interesting to see pat's face when he caught sight of them.

"oh, yes, i'll wear the pearls," she said. "you know perfectly well i had this shot blue and silver tissue made on purpose to go with them. why shouldn't i wear them, simone?"

simone did not answer, because she understood that no answer was expected. she had overheard something, and it was not her fault that she had not overheard all. unfortunately for her the room was large, and the duke and duchess had stood talking at a good distance from the door. the manner of her mistress, however, filled up several aching gaps in simone's curiosity; and putting together what she knew and what she surmised, the maid changed her mind as to her own wisest course of conduct.

she had intended to sacrifice inclination to prudence, and say nothing to the duchess about the polish dancer's visit that afternoon. now, she decided that it would be best to mention it. how to work up to the subject was the only doubt on that score left in her mind.

"madame la duchesse is merveilleuse—etíncilante!" she cried, as she held the rope of big blue beads over juliet's head, and let it fall gently upon the swans-down whiteness of the bare neck. "madame was perfect as a girl. now she goes beyond perfection. other women are charming—the beautiful pole, mademoiselle pavoya for instance, but——"

juliet darted upon her a piercing, angry glance. "what makes you think or speak of pavoya just now?" she sharply questioned.

"oh—i hardly know. except that she is of a great beauty, and—in her way—of a strange attraction. and then, also, as no doubt togo told madame la duchesse, la pavoya called to-day."

"called to-day!" echoed juliet. "you don't mean here?"

"but yes, madame. did not madame know? i was about to go out with the bulldog. being permitted to pass down by the front stairs, i saw the lady arrive. to be sure, she had on a thick embroidered veil through which, perhaps, many people would not recognize the most famous features. but my eyes are sharp. and then, her figure! there are not two such. though, to my taste, that of madame la duchesse is more alluring, more human. the dancer is a mere sprite! i said to myself, 'it must be about the charity performance for the armenians that she is here to consult with my mistress'!"

as she thus interpreted her own impressions, simone busied herself in getting juliet's ermine cloak, which previously she had laid ready on the bed. sometimes, when the claremanaghs were going out together in the evening, the duke came in and took his wife's coat from simone, slipping it in a leisurely and loving way over the white arms, as if he never tired of touching the adorable creature who belonged to him. but simone did not think he would come to perform that office to-night; and besides, she wanted an excuse to escape from her mistress's great, wide-open blue eyes. the maid had taken a tactful way of explaining the dancer's (possible) motive for calling; because if she dared to accuse the duke by a hint, the duchess would be bound to stop her.

juliet was struck dumb for a moment. she would not have thought, after what had passed between her and pat, that she could be surprised by anything concerning him and pavoya, but now she knew that she could be astounded.

pavoya had called! togo had let her in, the traitor! bribed by claremanagh, who had sunk low enough even for that! still, had togo let the woman in? it was easy to make sure.

"a pity i was out," juliet said. "i suppose she went away when she heard that?"

"no, madame, she came in," replied simone with the innocence of a child. "i do not know how long she stayed. monsieur le duc will tell madame that. it was to his study that togo took her."

"oh, very well. i can ask him what message she left," juliet promptly cut short this confidence. she had no wish to learn more, and her suppression of simone was no triumph of honour over curiosity. she felt a sick, languid repulsion against the whole subject, for she knew the worst now, and any further information would be a kind of horrid anti-climax.

"oh, pat, pat!" her heart mourned. "how has my idol fallen! and he talked so nobly about never lying!"

that night, when the duke and duchess of claremanagh came into their box in time for the second act of "rigoletto," everyone "in the know" said "look! she's got the tsarina pearls at last!"

and claremanagh wondered at her. he wondered terribly, abysmally, why, after their scene together, and her threats, she had worn the abominable things. he had wondered about that ever since, the ermine cloak removed, he had seen the blue beads on her neck at the van estens'.

he ought, perhaps, to have rejoiced at the sight, for she could not wear a rope of imitation pearls, and accuse lyda pavoya of stealing the real ones. that would be to punish him less severely than herself. yet pat was uneasy as well as unhappy. the only thing he understood clearly in all the hideous affair was that—he understood juliet not at all. he asked himself over and over again a question he could not, would not ask her—what, in god's name, she intended to do next?

all the way home, when at length they were again alone together in their brilliantly lit limousine, she did not utter one word, nor once look at him. she sat quite still, pretending to be asleep, but claremanagh knew that he was no wider awake than she. a dozen times he longed to speak; but there are some things a man cannot do. she seemed to have barricaded herself behind a transparent wall, through which he could see, yet not touch, her—as if she had been a lovely statuette under a glass case.

at the house she sprang past him quickly, without accepting his help to alight, and ran up the two or three marble steps. claremanagh had his key, but before he could use it juliet pressed the electric bell, and togo appeared. the girl did not look back at her husband, to see whether he meant to follow. and suddenly he did not mean to do so. he hadn't been sure, at first, what he would do: but he could not bear to have her shut the door of her room upon him, as she surely would.

with a gesture he signed to togo that he was not coming in. the car waited, but he said to the chauffeur in the pleasant, courteous tone which won the affection of servants, "i shan't want you—thanks."

in that mood, he could not make use of juliet's car. he preferred the poor independence of his own feet, even while he laughed at himself, bitterly, for so petty a revolt. he walked to the "grumblers," that one of his several clubs at which he was likely to meet a man with whom he had business—business important enough to remember even now.

"i won't keep the beastly money on me any longer," he thought. "the fellow shall have it to-night."