his black coffee with a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it. Into the midst of these cogitations came Hippolyte once more.
"A lady. Monsieur."
"A lady?"
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Comte could not think who the lady was likely to be.
"She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur," murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
"Show her out here, Hippolyte," he commanded.
A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out on the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms.
"Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?"
"At your service, Mademoiselle," said the Comte, bowing.
"My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me."
"Ah, indeed. Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!"
The dancer acknowledged this compliment with a brief mechanical smile.
"My descent upon you is unceremonious," she began.
"But seat yourself, I beg of you. Mademoiselle," cried the Comte, bringing forward a chair.
Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience
