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clutches.”
    â€œYes, you did,” said Ruth bitterly. “And I married Derek Kettering.”
    â€œYou wanted to,” said the millionaire sharply.
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œAnd now,” said Van Aldin slowly, “you have been seeing him again—after all I told you. He has been in the house today. I met him outside, and couldn’t place him for the moment.”
    Ruth Kettering had recovered her composure.
    â€œI want to tell you one thing, Dad; you are wrong about Armand—the Comte de la Roche, I mean. Oh, I know there were several regrettable incidents in his youth—he has told me about them; but—well, he has cared for me always. It broke his heart when you parted us in Paris, and now—”
    She was interrupted by the snort of indignation her father gave.
    â€œSo you fell for that stuff, did you? You, a daughter of mine! My God!”
    He threw up his hands.
    â€œThat women can be such darned fools!”

Six
    M IRELLE

    D erek Kettering emerged from Van Aldin’s suite so precipitantly that he collided with a lady passing across the corridor. He apologized, and she accepted his apologies with a smiling reassurance and passed on, leaving with him a pleasant impression of a soothing personality and rather fine grey eyes.
    For all his nonchalance, his interview with his father-in-law had shaken him more than he cared to show. He had a solitary lunch, and after it, frowning to himself a little, he went round to the sumptuous flat that housed the lady known as Mirelle. A trim Frenchwoman received him with smiles.
    â€œBut enter then, Monsieur. Madame reposes herself.”
    He was ushered into the long room with its Eastern setting which he knew so well. Mirelle was lying on the divan, supported by an incredible number of cushions, all in varying shades of amber, to harmonize with the yellow ochre of her complexion. The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.
    He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.
    â€œWhat have you been doing with yourself? Just got up, I suppose?”
    The orange mouth widened into a long smile.
    â€œNo,” said the dancer. “I have been at work.”
    She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.
    â€œAmbrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera.”
    Kettering nodded without paying much attention. He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter’s operatic setting of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. So was Mirelle, for that matter, regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra.
    â€œIt is a marvellous dance,” she murmured. “I shall put all the passion of the desert into it. I shall dance hung over with jewels —ah! and, by the way, mon ami, there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street—a black pearl.”
    She paused, looking at him invitingly.
    â€œMy dear girl,” said Kettering, “it’s no use talking of black pearls to me. At the present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire.”
    She was quick to respond to his tone. She sat up, her big black eyes widening.
    â€œWhat is that you say, Dereek? What has happened?”
    â€œMy esteemed father-in-law,” said Kettering, “is preparing to go off the deep end.”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œIn other words, he wants Ruth to divorce me.”
    â€œHow stupid!” said Mirelle. “Why should she want to divorce you?”
    Derek Kettering grinned.
    â€œMainly because of you, chérie! ” he said.
    Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œThat is foolish,” she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.
    â€œVery foolish,” agreed Derek.
    â€œWhat are you going to do about it?” demanded Mirelle.
    â€œMy