D’Aubeville nodded, scribbling meanwhile in a pocket-book. “There is her address. Get Saint-Ermay released before to-morrow evening—I can do nothing myself, I should merely be taken too—and send him to the address I have written beneath it. . . . No, you say you can manage that part yourself. It is all over; I must go and see if any of us are left—and you should not be seen talking to me. Good luck to you!” “Tell me one thing,” interposed Gilbert hastily. “This woman—I know nothing of Louis’ relations with her—can I bribe her?” D’Aubeville turned. “I should doubt it. I cannot tell you how to prevail upon her; I must leave that to you. She is a devil, but she has a heart sometimes. And at any rate she knows where he is.” He disappeared in the dusk. The Marquis stood still, collecting his thoughts. A moment or two ago Louis’ peril had sunk forgotten beneath his possible treachery. Now the full realisation of his imminent danger swept like the incoming tide over a shore of suspicion that would be bared again at ebb. The flood carried Château-Foix along with it. He summoned a passing vehicle, sprang in, and drove at once across the river to Madame d’Espaze’s house in the Rue de Tournon. The rush of feeling had borne him up to the very door of the enchantress before he began to consider what he should say to her. Should he plead or threaten, argue or bribe? Not knowing the lady he concluded (perhaps not unwisely) that it was useless to arrange a plan of campaign until he had seen her, and rang the bell on this resolution. Alas, Madame was not at home to any one. No, she had given positive orders. And then only did Gilbert realise that it was something late for a visit. Would she receive him to-morrow morning? Sped by a handsome gratuity, the lackey went back with the Marquis’ card. He returned to say that the Comtesse would gladly receive Monsieur at ten. With this consolation Gilbert, baffled, went slowly down the steps between the flowering shrubs and through the gay little courtyard out again into the street. And gradually the tide began to ebb. There was nothing to be done till morning—nothing but think. Once back in his room at the hotel there seemed indeed to be every likelihood of his doing that till daybreak, the more so that a certain merciless clearness of vision was beginning to bathe past and present in a dreadful illumination. Everything was patent to him now. That he should not have known better! That he could have had the incredible folly to trust Louis near Lucienne; to believe that there was at least one woman in the world whom he would respect. Fool! it had probably made the prize but the more desirable!