of torture than that opened up by her lover's well-meant suggestion.
Olga accompanied him across the little balcony and down the stairs to the outer door, and there, for the first time, and to Grover's joy and dismay, held out her hand and said to him, almost shyly, with tender eyes,—a delicious new phase of her,—"I love you, Prince!"
He caught her up and held her, while in the distance a burst of contented Scandinavian whistling echoed from wall to wall of the great atelier. At that they clung to each other more tightly. Then she wished to be released.
The next morning he telephoned, but Olga was not at home. The concierge believed she had gone to visit her aunt, who was ill. Grover left a message and asked the concierge to call him upon Mlle. Vaudreuil's return.
It was Sunday, and the two nondescript men who also had lodgings in Mme. Choiseul's apartment were reading newspapers in the grande pièce, luxuriating in their weekly day of rest and ruining what little comfort the room might hold for Grover. He decided to walk
