So Gilbert left the Hôtel de la Séguinière. He was concerned and anxious, and could not blame himself sufficiently for allowing Lucienne to have heard the truth about Louis. He had better have lied. And he had turned into the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux when suddenly he stopped, and put his hand across his eyes. A vision had abruptly presented itself of Lucienne, white and quivering with excitement, uttering those words that rang with terror and passion, “Why ‘if you can’? Why ‘if you can’? You are hiding something. . . .” He felt her again in his arms, inanimate the one moment, the next—— And this—this at the mention of Louis’ name, of Louis’ danger. . . . The hideous suspicion was impossible, and yet—— He would know the truth at once, he would go back and ask Lucienne herself. He swung on his heel, and stopped, won by wiser counsels. Did he purpose to make a fool of himself, to play the jealous lover, and at such a time, when the balances of life and death were weighing? The poor child would naturally be anxious; her passion was conjured up by his own disordered imagination; she was tired; how could he have dreamed such a thing! Once more he turned his face westward and walked rapidly on. But alas! to drive away a thought is not to slay it. The terrible idea, which had sprung full-panoplied into being, was immortal, and he knew it. The sting had been dealt, and the poison was ineradicable. The street seemed to lengthen and contract, to be gripping his heart. It came back the second time like a harpy—“What guarantee have you that Louis has not played you false, that Lucienne has not deceived you?” He cast it away the second time, still walking on, though he was unconscious of movement, for it seemed as if the world stood still. But it was like fighting the sea. For the third time it surged back upon him—“Suppose, suppose . . .” And then round a corner, in that network of little streets, he came face to face with D’Aubeville. “A moment!” said the latter in a low voice, gripping him by the arm without an apology. He was rather pale, and his breath came short as though he had been running. “Give me a moment!” He drew the Marquis up an alley. “You know he has been arrested?” “Louis?” asked the Marquis. “Yes. Do you know where he is?” “If you can get him released,” said D’Aubeville rapidly, without replying to the question, “I can get him out of Paris.” “But where is he?” exclaimed Gilbert impatiently. “I can get him out of Paris myself, if I can find him.” “She must know, if no one else does,” returned D’Aubeville. “Go to her—to Madame d’Espaze. She knows, and she could get Lecorrier to release him.” “Madame d’Espaze,” repeated the Marquis. “She knows, you say—but would she do it?” The young man shrugged his shoulders. “It is a chance—the only one. At least, if she would do it for any one, she would do it for Saint-Ermay.” “Give me her address,” said Château-Foix. “I can but try. If we knew where he is it would be something.”