After long cogitation, Le Gautier decided to keep the appointment, and, in accordance with this determination, walked to Charing Cross the following night. He loitered along the broad stone platform for some time till the clock struck nine, idly speculating upon the people hurrying to and fro, and turning over the books and papers on the bookstall. At a few minutes after the hour he looked up at the clock, and then down again, and his heart beat a shade more quickly, for there, standing by the swinging door leading to the first-class waiting-room, was a long cloaked figure, closely veiled. Walking carelessly in the direction, and approaching, he looked at his watch as he muttered: ‘Past nine—no sign of the Eastern Eagle.’ By way of answer, the mysterious stranger raised her hand to the clasp of her cloak, and there, in the centre of the fastening, was a gold moidore. Le Gautier’s eyes glistened as he noticed this. ‘You wish to see me?’ he said at length. ‘I must thank you for’—— ‘If your name is Le Gautier,’ she interrupted, ‘I do want to say a few words to you.—Am I right, sir?’ Le Gautier bowed, thinking that, if the face matched the voice and figure, he had a treasure here. ‘This is no place to discuss this matter. If you can suggest any place where we can hold a few minutes’ conversation, I shall be obliged.’ Le Gautier mused a moment; he had a good knowledge of London, but hesitated to take a lady to any place so late. The only suggestion he could make was the Embankment; and apparently this suited his companion, for, bowing her head, she took the proffered arm, walked out from the station, down Villiers Street, and so on to the waterside. Le Gautier noticed how the fingers on his arm trembled, attributing this to natural timidity, never dreaming that the emotion might be a warmer one. He began to feel at home now, and his tongue ran on accordingly. ‘Ah! how good of you,’ he exclaimed, pressing the arm lying in his own tenderly—‘how angelic of you to come to my aid! Tell me how you knew I was so rash, so impetuous?’ ‘Men who carry their lives in their hands always are,’ Isodore replied. ‘The story does not need much telling. I was in the Kursaal at the time, and had my eyes on you. I saw you detach the insignia from your watchchain; I saw you hand it to a woman to stake; in short, I can put my hand upon it now.’ ‘My protector, my guardian angel!’ Le Gautier cried rapturously; and then, with a sudden prosaic touch, added: ‘Have you got it with you?’ Isodore hesitated. If he could only have seen the smile behind the thick dark veil which hid the features so tantalisingly! ‘I have not your insignia with me,’ she said; ‘that I must give you at some future time, not now. Though I am alarmed for you, I cannot but admire your reckless audacity.’ ‘I thought perhaps you might,’ Le Gautier observed in a disappointed tone, and glancing at the clasp of his companion’s cloak.