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interview with the woman, tell her all my suspicions, and dare her to torture Violet Bouverie any further. But reflection showed me the absurdity of this plan. I must wait and watch; ah, yes, I would watch, even as a detective, and would not leave a stone unturned to pursue this terrible woman until her wicked machinations were laid bare.

It was with a sinking heart that I dressed for dinner, but by-and-by, when I found myself at the long table, with its brilliant decorations and its distinguished guests, and glanced round the glittering-board, I almost wondered if all that I had felt and all that Violet Bouverie's face had expressed were not parts of a hideous dream; for the party was so gay, the conversation so full of wit and laughter, that surely no horrible tragedy could be lingering in the background.

But as these thoughts came to me I looked again at Violet. At tea-time that evening I had noticed her improved appearance, but now she looked ghastly; her cheeks were hollow, her eyes sunken, her complexion a dull, dead white. Her evening dress revealed hollows in her neck. But it was the tired look, the suppressed anguish on her face, which filled me with apprehension. I could see how bravely she tried to be bright and gay. I also noticed that her eyes avoided mine.

Mirza Ali Khan sat on the right of Lady Bouverie—on his other side sat Madame Sara, and I occupied a chair next to hers. Between Madame and our hostess appeared to-night a most marked and painful contrast. Violet Bouverie was not twenty. Madame Sara, by her own showing, was an old woman, and yet at that moment the old looked young and the young old. Madame's face was brilliant, not a wrinkle was to be observed; her make-up was so perfect that it could not be detected even by the closest observer. Her tout ensemble gave her the appearance of a woman who could not be a day more than five-and-twenty. Many a man would have fallen a victim to her wit and brilliancy; but I at least was saved that—I knew her too well. I hated her for that beauty, which effected such havoc in the world.

It was easy to see that Ali Khan was fascinated by her; but at table she had the good taste to address him in English. Now and then I noticed that she looked earnestly at our hostess. After one of these glances she turned to me and said, in a low voice:—

"How ill Lady Bouverie is looking! Don't you think so?"

"Yes," I replied, "she is. I feel anxious about her."

"I wish she would consult me," she replied. "I could do her good. But she will not. She is under the impression, Mr. Druce, that I am a quack because I do not hold diplomas—a curious delusion I find among people."

"But a sound one," I answered.

She laughed, and turned again to her other neighbour.

When we joined the ladies after dinner Lady Bouverie crossed over to the Persian and said something to him.

"Certainly," he answered, and immediately left the room, returning in a few minutes with a despatch-box. We all clustered about him as he placed it on the table and opened it. A little murmur of surprise ran round the group when he lifted the lid and displayed the contents. A mass of gorgeous gems was lying in a bed of white wool. It was a blaze of all the colours of the rainbow. Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, rubies, pearls, topazes, cats-eyes, amethysts, and many others whose names I did not know were to be found there. One by one he removed them and passed each round for inspection. As he did so he gave a short description of its virtues, its origin, and value, and then returned it to the box again. Truly the display was wonderful. Madame Sara lingered long and lovingly over some of the gems, declaring that she had seen one or two before, mentioning certain anecdotes about them to the Persian, who nodded and smiled as he replaced, with his pointed fingers, each in its receptacle. He was evidently much pleased with the admiration they excited.

"But surely, Mr. Khan, you have brought the bloodstone to show us?" questioned Lady Bouverie.

"Ah, yes. I kept that supreme treasure for the last."

As he spoke he pushed a spring in the box, and a secret triangular drawer came slowly out. In it, nestling in a bed of red velvet, lay a wonderful stone—a perfectly oval piece of moss-green chalcedony with translucent edges. Here and there in irregular pattern shone out in vivid contrast to the dark green a number of blood-red spots, from which the stone derived its name.

"Yes," he said, lifting it out with reverence and laying it on the palm of his hand, "this is the bloodstone. Look closely at it if you will, but I must ask none of you to touch it."

One after another we bent down and peered into its luminous green depths, and doubtless