In the meantime the prima donna gave a sigh of relief. She was home. It

was nearly two o'clock. She would sleep till noon, and Saturday and Sunday

would be hers. She went up the stairs instead of taking the lift, and

though the hall was dark, she knew her way. She unlocked the door of the

apartment and entered, swinging the door behind her. As the act was

mechanical, her thoughts being otherwise engaged, she did not notice that

the lock failed to click. The ferrule of a cane had prevented that.

She flung her wraps on the divan and put the roses in an empty bowl. The

door opened softly, without noise. Next, she stopped before the mirror

over the mantel, touched her hair lightly, detached the tiara of emeralds

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... and became as inanimate as marble. She saw another face. She never

knew how long the interval of silence was. She turned slowly.

"Yes, it is I!" said the man.

Instantly she turned again to the mantel and picked up a

magazine-revolver. She leveled it at him.

"Leave this room, or I will shoot."

Courtlandt advanced toward her slowly. "Do so," he said. "I should much

prefer a bullet to that look."

"I am in earnest." She was very white, but her hand was steady.

He continued to advance. There followed a crash. The smell of burning

powder filled the room. The Burmese gong clanged shrilly and whirled

wildly. Courtlandt felt his hair stir in terror.

"You must hate me indeed," he said quietly, as the sense of terror died

away. He folded his arms. "Try again; there ought to be half a dozen

bullets left. No? Then, good-by!" He left the apartment without another

word or look, and as the door closed behind him there was a kind of

finality in the clicking of the latch.

The revolver clattered to the floor, and the woman who had fired it leaned

heavily against the mantel, covering her eyes.

"Nora, Nora!" cried a startled voice from a bedroom adjoining. "What has

happened? Mon Dieu, what is it?" A pretty, sleepy-eyed young woman, in a

night-dress, rushed into the room. She flung her arms about the singer.

"Nora, my dear, my dear!"

"He forced his way in. I thought to frighten him. It went off

accidentally. Oh, Celeste, Celeste, I might have killed him!"

The other drew her head down on her shoulder, and listened. She could hear

voices in the lower hall, a shout of warning, a patter of steps; then the

hall door slammed. After that, silence, save for the faint mellowing

vibrations of the Burmese gong.




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