that he had recognized her; until, as they parted, he once more left her astonished and perturbed. As he bowed he murmured:
"Beware, sweet Columbine! Beware of the gay Aramis! Beware of his proposals!"
He was gone upon the word.
Aramis? Why, that must be the Musketeer, of course—Bob Maillard! The name, with its implications, was a clever hit. But who was this brown monk, who seemed to know so much, who danced so divinely, whose French was like music? A vague suspicion was in the girl's mind, but she had no proof.
Half an hour after this Bob Maillard came to her, and with impatient words made a path through the circle which surrounded her. He caught her hand and bent over it with an affectation of gallantry which became him well, for in his costume he made a handsome figure.
"I know you now, Lucie!" he murmured. "I must see you at once—in the conservatory."
She was minded to refuse, but assented briefly. The words of the monk intrigued her; what had the man guessed? If Bob
