William hesitated; then he made up his mind: “I’ve got the letters all right,” he said quickly. “What I mean to say is, they’re not on me.” “Where are they?” “A friend of mine is taking care of them for me,” said William. “Where is he?” snapped Marescal. “In the hotel. I’ll go and find him.” “There’s no need to do that,” said Marescal, guessing the identity of his friend. He rang the bell. The chambermaid answered it. “You’ll find a young lady waiting in the corridor,” said Marescal. “Tell her that Mr. William wants her and bring her here.” William started. “What does this mean?” he cried. “It’s contrary to my agreement with Lord Bakersfield, the young lady who is waiting for me has nothing to do with the matter.” He tried to go through the door. But Marescal smartly blocked the way. There came a knock; he opened the door, keeping out of sight behind it; and the girl with the green eyes entered on hesitating feet. She uttered a faint cry of terror when the door was banged behind her and the key turned sharply in the lock. On the instant a hand gripped her shoulder. She turned, saw the Commissary, and groaned: “Marescal!” As the name passed her lips, William saw that the Commissary only had eyes for her, seized his chance and bolted through the window and across the garden. Marescal swore; then turned on the girl, who tottering and overwhelmed, staggered to the middle of the room. He snatched her bag from her and cried: “Nothing can save you this time, you little crook! You’ve run straight into the trap!” He rummaged in her hand-bag and growled: “Where are those letters? Blackmail now! You’ve sunk to that, have you? Shameful!” The girl dropped on to a chair. Not finding the letters in her hand-bag, he stormed at her savagely: “The letters! The letters! Where are they? Have you got them on you?” He caught the front of her dress and tore it open, abusing her furiously, and felt for the letters. He stopped short, stupefied, with his eyes starting out of his head as they stared into the face of a man with one eye closed in a protracted wink and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips, set in a jeering snarl. “Could you oblige me with a light, Rudolph?” said the intruder. “Could you oblige me with a light!” That disconcerting phrase, already heard in Paris, already read in his private note-book! What did it mean! And this familiarity! That wink? “Who are you? T-T-The m-m-man on the express? The third confederate? Impossible!” stammered Marescal. He was no coward; on more than one occasion he had faced two or three adversaries with uncommon courage. But this was an adversary such as he had never met before, who employed unheard-of means, and with whom he found himself in a condition of permanent inferiority. Shaken and speechless, he stood on the defensive, almost, for the moment, paralyzed.