"Oh, Céleste," he sobbed, "it is I--it is Oliver! I am come to save you. Open the door, Céleste, and let me in!" "I cannot," said Céleste. "It is locked; there is no key." "But the woman who has just entered," said Oliver, "has she not the key?" "The woman?" said Céleste. "Of whom do you speak, Oliver? No one has entered here since that dreadful man who brought me here went away and left me." Oliver looked around him. Could she--that mysterious woman--have left the room by any other way? No; there were but two doors--the door through which he had followed her and the door at which he now stood. She could have left the room in no other way. It was very strange, but Oliver dismissed the subject from his mind. This was no time to wonder over the many mysteries that involved the dark life of the Count de St. Germaine. He must save Céleste. "Courage, Céleste!" he breathed through the door. "I must go and leave you, but I go to bring help to you. I will save you, Céleste!" He had no plan for saving her, as he thus promised to do; but in the elation of his feelings upon having thus found her, and in the elasticity of his youthful confidence, he felt sure of his ability to do something. "But, tell me, Oliver," said Céleste, "where am I? Why have I been brought here? What is to happen to me? Who was the horrible man that drew that awful black hood over my face in the garden?" "You are in the apartments of the Count de St. Germaine," answered Oliver. "He of whom you speak was that Gaspard, and--and I--do not know what they will do to you, Céleste. But courage, my love. I _must_ go; but do not be afraid; I will save you, I swear it! But I must go. If they find me here they will kill me--What was that?" It was the sound of the closing of a door below; of footsteps crossing the landing upon which Oliver had followed his silent guide. "Gaspard!" _It was the voice of the Count de St. Germaine!_ Oliver stood as though turned to stone. He cast his despairing eyes around. Where should he escape? To leave by the door was to face the master, whose footsteps he could hear already climbing the stairs towards the room. The window? That meant horrible death upon the pavement beneath. The wardrobe! The thought was an inspiration. It stood against the farther wall of the room, a huge, ponderous structure of carved and polished wood, inlaid with arabesque patterns of lighter colors. There was no time to lose; the master was almost at the door. The wardrobe was divided into two compartments separated by a wooden partition, against which the folding doors closed. Oliver climbed into one of the sides and among the clothes that hung from the hooks above, closing the door behind him. As he did so he heard the footsteps of the Count de St. Germaine enter the room.