familiar voice.
"How are you this morning, Georgia?"
"Perfectly well," she told him.
"Good. What are you doing today?"
"Nothing."
"Then suppose you come to Bruges with me? I've finished my business here, but I mean to stop over for a day. What about it?"
She intended to refuse the invitation, but as she hesitated she changed her mind. At least she could talk to him about the Count, and perhaps relieve her depression. Because the sun was shining there was still a ray of hope.
"I'd love to," she said gloomily.
"Then I'll come over and collect you at ten," arranged Torch.
It was the most important deal he had ever negotiated in his client's interests, but he rang off with complete unconcern.
As Georgia lay in bed waiting for her breakfast, she began to revive her impressions of the night.
"I must have been awake for a moment or so when I realised that the room was larger," she decided. "After that I dropped off to sleep again. Father always said you could trace the origin of every dream. Mine began with the mirror in Mrs. Vanderpant's salon."
Sure of her starting-point, she began to reassemble the links. The mirror had reminded her of her childish dream when she saw a crowd of foul and loathsome faces, all of which came from Hogarth's prints. This released memory in its turn had been responsible for the hideous transformation of the dinner-party guests, while her dormant horror of the Wiertz picture had kindled the cruelty which had laughed at her from the Count's eyes.
"That lonely island, too," she thought. "Of course, that was a logical result of Waterloo. It made me brood over St. Helena."
She had gone on the expedition without the Count, as an unabashed member of a tourist-party. With the counter-attraction of his personality withdrawn she had been deeply impressed by what she saw and heard. The guide made the battle appear more recent than the Great War of 1914-1918, as he explained the rusty relics in the inn of La Belle Alliance and described the ghastly carnage of the concealed trenches.
Afterwards she had climbed the steps to the top of the mount and, looking down on the peaceful sunlit fields, had reconstructed the battle in her imagination. She had sunk to complete tourist-level and bought a brass trifle engraved with the Dutch lion, which had to be concealed from the derision of the Count.
"No wonder I felt like Napoleon myself," she thought.
Satisfied by her explanation, she got out of bed and crossed to the window of the salon. Below lay a garden which bore little resemblance to the vast arboreal jungle of her dream. It was ambitiously planned for so small an area, with dusty shrubs, leaden statues, and a small fishpond filled with brown water, but the general effect was of neglect. The grass was rank, the rustic seats damply uninviting, the stone-work blackened with smuts.
A little distance away, pencilled against the sky, was the fire-escape. The stair wound up steeply to the roof, where a ledge encircled the four sides of the building around the courtyard. Viewed from Georgia's bedroom it appeared so perilous a bridge to safety that she decided that it must have been constructed on the principle of a major fear destroying a minor.
As she traced its course she noticed a large open window which was set in the angle of two walls. There was something so unpleasantly familiar about the sight of it that she failed to notice the entrance of the waiter with her breakfast tray.
He stared upwards to discover what was holding her attention.
"That high window is where you were last night," he told her.
At his words the memory of her dream flooded her mind.
"No," she protested. "That's impossible."
The man looked at her agitated face in surprise.
"But yes, Madame," he persisted. "That is Madame Vanderpant's apartment where you had dinner last evening. It is our most expensive suite because of the marvellous view of the city. Perhaps Madame looked out of the windows?...Service."
He laid down the tray and went out of the room while Georgia remained clutching the window-frame. Suddenly she was shaken by gusts of hideous doubt. Suspicions which were too fantastic to be credible clamoured for recognition on the strength of a fact.
One part of her dream had been proved true by the evidence of the enlarged room. Therefore, by what authority could she claim to know exactly when the dream had ended? Under the influence of the drug she might actually have made her perilous journey up to the roof.
She looked at the window-ledge and shivered at the thought of balancing herself upon the narrow sill. The gap which divided her from the stair involved a spring across empty space. If she had fallen, even from the first floor, she might have broken her back or neck.
"I wish I knew the truth," she thought desperately. Unfortunately there was no means of testing any theory, since she had already destroyed any proof. The light in the bathroom had been too poor for her to notice whether her hands or the soles of her feet were smutted, while her black satin pyjamas could reveal no grime.
Since a definite solution of the mystery eluded her, commonsense advised her to dismiss the matter from her mind as too improbable for acceptance. But that open window, with its suggestion of familiarity, persistently lured her further to the ghastly revelation behind the curtain.
As she shivered, the hoot of a motor-horn drew her across to the other window. Drawn up beside the pavement was a long and powerful touring-car piled with luggage. It was surrounded by the liveried small-fry of the hotel, each hopeful of pennies from heaven. The Professor and Clair were already seated inside, but Georgia was in time to witness the departure of the Count and his aunt.
As she watched the dignity with which Mrs. Vanderpant received the deferential bows of the management, the spectre of a face corroded with vulpine greed faded away. Below was a great lady whose patronage was an honour prized by the hotel.
Her heart beat faster as the Count looked up and surprised her at the window. He kissed his fingers in farewell, while the sun lit up his blue eyes, too clear for a night's debauchery.
Georgia waved her hand and went back to her neglected breakfast.
"Thank heaven it was only a dream," she told herself as she poured out her coffee. "Of course, when he was a child, he was probably a cruel little devil, like those children in the picture. His generation was not trained in kindness to animals. Now, the children instruct us."
She smiled at the recollection of her children's first puppy. Before she could deliver her little lecture on kindness to animals she was forestalled by Mavis, who had been previously coached by her governess.
"You must never be cruel to dumb creatures," she said, sternly, suspiciously regarding her parent as a specimen of adult cruelty. "Miss Jones says that you must remember that the puppy feels like you, although it doesn't look exactly like you."
"And remember," added Merle, skipping a connecting sequence, "you must never pick him up and squeeze him, or he'll have kittens."
Another hoot told her that the Count was passing out of Brussels and out of her life. She could hear the car rolling over the cobbles,
