Malletort never neglected a precaution. Reaching his hand to a flask of white Hermitage, and exclaiming, “We chemists are never without resource,” he was about to pour from it on the table, when a soft voice murmured languidly, “Give me a few drops, monsieur, I am thirsty,” and Madame de Parabére, half turning round, held her glass out to be helped. He was forced to comply, but in another second had flooded the ink-marks with Hermitage, and blurred the stains on the cloth into one faded shapeless blot. Madame de Parabére’s face remained immoveable, and her fine eyes looked sleepy as ever, yet in that second she had read a capital _G_, with a small _r_, reversed, and had drawn her own conclusions. There is but one sentiment in a woman’s mind stronger than gratitude—its name is Love. Nevertheless, her love for the Regent was not so overpowering as to shake her determination that she would save the Captain of Musketeers at any sacrifice. Meanwhile, the object of her solicitude returned to his quarters by way of the Hôtel Montmirail, coasting the dead wall surrounding that mansion very slowly, and absorbed in his own reflections. To reach it he diverged considerably from his direct road, although the guard posted in its vicinity consisted that night of Black Musketeers, who were not to be relieved till the next afternoon by their comrades of the Grey Company. To prove their vigilance seemed, however, the aim of Captain George’s walk, for after a brief reconnoitre, he retired quietly to rest about the time that his royal host, with the assistance of two valets, staggered from banqueting-room to bed-chamber. And no wonder, for notwithstanding a liberal consumption of champagne, the flasks of red and white Burgundy stood empty on the supper-table. CHAPTER XVIII BAITING THE TRAP In transactions with womankind, the sharpest of men are apt to overlook in their calculations the paramount influence of dress.