He led her down the corridor of the second floor, to a room at the very end of the hail, unlocked the door and thrust her roughly inside, locking the door on “her.

The arrogant and beautiful young debutante, so superbly gowned for the social festivities announcing her arrival upon the stage of the elite, was a prisoner, in a room of a deserted house miles from New York!

For a moment she stood, stupefied; then her anger returned to her and in an excess of temper she threw herself at the door, tugging at the knob, beating on the door with her gloved fists.

Silence, silence, responded; only the echo of her hammering returned to mock her.

She turned around, pale and trembling; she began to take notice of the room in which she was kept prisoner.’

It was a strange room, elegantly furnished in fastidious style; but, for all its correctness, it contained strange elements, which made her sensation of uneasiness return.

Here and there were love seats, lush and inviting… a wide, plush-lined divan was at one side of the room… several large Louis Quinze mirrors, oval and ornate in decorative, frames, were placed at the corners. At the right, as her eyes slowly turned to contemplate, was a boudoir table and, fascinated by some strange impulse, she slowly advanced toward it.

“Why… why…, it looks like my own,” she murmured to herself and that enigmatic, troubling aura of fear and apprehension piqued her…

‘Her eyes rose, surveying the walls and now again she was strangely uneasy.

There were many pictures, placed in abundance on the walls. She drew closer, to observe and suddenly she gasped.

For what she regarded was an enlarged photograph of a beautiful, naked girl on a couch, with an equally naked male bending over her loins, his face conveying a lustful expression.

Her eyes hastily recoiled.