His suspicions would no longer be stifled. He still fought them, but it was useless. He reasoned with himself, he argued with himself. But the more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions take root. Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all. She had told a lie to save his life! And, having saved his life, she had had to find the money which, she told him, they had won, and without which he had confessed he dared not face life. How had she obtained that money? He heard the question answered again and again, but he dared not listen. He put his hands over his ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony. To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself. She could not have known what she was doing. She must have been mad at the time.... As mad as he when he had taken his revolver and placed it over his heart intending self-destruction. Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed. The sun was commencing to rise before he slept. For sleep only came when he had made up his mind what he would do when a few hours later he met Sir Reginald Crichton. CHAPTER VIII. ARRESTED. Rupert awoke with a start. Some one had been knocking loudly at his door. He turned slowly round, then sat upright. The little maid had drawn back the curtains and pulled up the blind with a noisy jerk. "It’s past nine o’clock, sir. You slept that sound I began to grow scared—though I wouldn’t have woke you but for Mrs. Jones—she’s got one of her nasty moods on this morning; she says she can’t have breakfast kept about the whole morning. Shall I turn the bath water on for you, sir?" "Yes, I shan’t be five minutes," Rupert replied. "She can start cooking the breakfast at once." Directly the door closed he jumped out of bed, and slipping on his dressing-gown commenced to shave. Every now and then as he lathered his face he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The action was unconscious, yet, whenever he caught himself doing it he was filled with a vague sense of uneasiness. On his way to the bathroom he glanced at the breakfast-table to see if there were any letters for him. He half expected one from Sir Reginald. But there was only a postcard. As he saw and recognised the writing he picked it up eagerly. It was from Ruby. The postmark was Paris, dated the previous morning. He turned it over, but for a few seconds the writing was blurred by the mist which rose before his eyes. He experienced a sudden, blessed sense of relief. The horror which had haunted him all night went away. He read the address at the top of the card—"Hotel de Tournon." He knew it, a little place in the Latin Quarter patronised by artists and students. Had she been guilty she would never have written to him nor let him know where she was hiding. The postcard meant that she was not hiding, that she had not run away. He knew that she was safe.