The first time she had left them in the hotel bureau, at her new friend's request, was when they had been together to some place of amusement at night, and she had felt quite miserable, quite lost without them.

She had even caught herself wondering whether M.
Girard was perfectly honest, whether she could trust him not to have her dear pearls changed by some clever jeweller, though, to be sure, she felt she would have known her string of pearls anywhere! * * * * * But what was this that was going on between the other two?
Madame Cagliostra dealt out the pack of cards in a slow, deliberate fashion--and then she uttered a kind of low hoarse cry, and mixed the cards all together, hurriedly.
Getting up from the table, she exclaimed, "I regret, Madame, that I can tell you nothing--nothing at all! I feel ill--very ill!" and, indeed, she had turned, even to Sylvia's young and unobservant eyes, terribly pale.
For some moments the soothsayer stood staring into Anna Wolsky's astonished face.
"I know I've disappointed you, Mesdames, but I hope this will not prevent your telling your friends of my powers.

Allow me to assure you that it is not often that I am taken in this way!" Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

She was now gazing down at the pack of cards which lay on the table with a look of horror and oppression on her face.
"I will only charge five francs," she muttered at last, "for I know that I have not satisfied you." Sylvia sprang to the window.

She tore apart the curtains and pulled up the sash.
"No wonder the poor woman feels faint," she said quickly.