Beside the window, half-hidden, and peering through the side of the curtain into the street, stood M. Charolais. But it was hardly the M. Charolais who had paid M. Gournay-Martin that visit at the château de Charmerace, and departed so firmly in the millionaire’s favourite motor-car. This was a paler M. Charolais; he lacked altogether the rich, ruddy complexion of the millionaire’s visitor. His nose, too, was thinner, and showed none of the ripe acquaintance with the vintages of the world which had been so plainly displayed on it during its owner’s visit to the country. Again, hair and eyebrows were no longer black, but fair; and his hair was no longer curly and luxuriant, but thin and lank. His moustache had vanished, and along with it the dress of a well-to-do provincial man of business. He wore a livery of the Charmeraces, and at that early morning hour had not yet assumed the blue waistcoat which is an integral part of it. Indeed it would have required an acute and experienced observer to recognize in him the bogus purchaser of the Mercrac. Only his eyes, his close-set eyes, were unchanged. Walking restlessly up and down the middle of the room, keeping out of sight of the windows, was Victoire. She wore a very anxious air, as did Charolais too. By the door stood Bernard Charolais; and his natural, boyish timidity, to judge from his frightened eyes, had assumed an acute phase. “By the Lord, we’re done!” cried Charolais, starting back from the window. “That was the front-door bell.” “No, it was only the hall clock,” said Bernard. “That’s seven o’clock! Oh, where can he be?” said Victoire, wringing her hands. “The coup was fixed for midnight.... Where can he be?” “They must be after him,” said Charolais. “And he daren’t come home.” Gingerly he drew back the curtain and resumed his watch. “I’ve sent down the lift to the bottom, in case he should come back by the secret entrance,” said Victoire; and she went to the opening into the well of the lift and stood looking down it, listening with all her ears. “Then why, in the devil’s name, have you left the doors open?” cried Charolais irritably. “How do you expect the lift to come up if the doors are open?” “I must be off my head!” cried Victoire. She stepped to the side of the lift and pressed a button. The doors closed, and there was a grunting click of heavy machinery settling into a new position. “Suppose we telephone to Justin at the Passy house?” said Victoire. “What on earth’s the good of that?” said Charolais impatiently. “Justin knows no more than we do. How can he know any more?” “The best thing we can do is to get out,” said Bernard, in a shaky voice. “No, no; he will come. I haven’t given up hope,” Victoire protested. “He’s sure to come; and he may need us.” “But, hang it all! Suppose the police come! Suppose they ransack his papers.... He hasn’t told us what to do ... we are not ready for them.... What are we to do?” cried Charolais, in a tone of despair.