She was waiting anxiously for Mimo at their trysting-place, the mausoleum of Halicarnassus in the British Museum, and he was late.

He would have the last news of Mirko.

No reply had awaited her to her telegram to Mrs.
Morley from Paris, and it had been too late to wire again last night.
And Mrs.Morley must have got the telegram, because Mimo had got his.
Some day, she hoped--when she could grow perhaps more friendly with her husband--she would get her uncle to let her tell him about Mirko.

It would make everything so much more simple as regards seeing him, and why, since the paper was all signed and nothing could be altered, should there be any mystery now?
Only, her uncle had said the day before the wedding, "I beg of you not to mention the family disgrace of your mother to your husband nor speak to him of the man Sykypri for a good long time--if you ever need." And she had acquiesced.
"For," Francis Markrute had reasoned to himself, "if the boy dies, as Morley thinks there is every likelihood that he will, why should Tristram ever know ?" The disgrace of his adored sister always made him wince.
Mimo came at last, looking anxious and haggard, and not his debonair self.

Yes, he had had a telegram that morning.