Then she said: “That’s funny. The manager wants me to send him the bandeau I wear in the show, by his secretary. He wants to get it copied, and he’ll let me have it back at the theater to-night.” Ralph swore under his breath: “Hang it!” he thought. “That bandeau is the chief object of my search. Is this manager also on the trail of it? And is Bridget Rousselin going to send it along to him?” Her next words set his mind at rest. “But I can’t do it,” she said. “I’ve already promised those stones.” “That’s a pity,” said Valentine. “The manager will be annoyed.” “I can’t help it. I’ve promised to sell them--and for a big price too,” said the actress. “Then what am I to say?” asked Valentine. “I must write to him,” said Bridget. She went into her boudoir, wrote the note, and gave it to Valentine. “By the way, do you know this secretary?” she said carelessly. “Have you seen him at the theater?” “No, I haven’t. He must be a new one,” said Valentine. “Tell him to tell the manager how sorry I am, and that I’ll tell him all about it at the theater to-night.” Valentine went downstairs again; Bridget went to the piano and did two or three voice exercises. They must have drowned the noise of the shutting of the house-door, for Ralph did not hear it. The minutes passed. He felt somewhat uncomfortable. This business seemed to him rather queer--this secretary they did not know, this request for the jewels looked to him uncommonly like a trap of some sort. Then he was reassured by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They went to the door of the boudoir. “Valentine,” he said to himself. “There was nothing in my fancies. The man has gone.” But of a sudden the playing stopped short in the middle of a run. Evidently the actress jumped up so suddenly as to upset the piano stool, for it banged on the floor. She said in an uneasy voice: “Who are you?... Oh, of course, you’re Monsieur Lenoir’s new secretary.... But what is it you want?” A man’s voice answered: “Monsieur Lenoir gave me the strictest instructions to bring those jewels back with me; and I must insist on having them.” “But I have written to him!” exclaimed Bridget in a yet more uneasy voice.... “My maid must have given you the letter.... Why hasn’t she come upstairs? Valentine!” The door of the boudoir was banged violently. Ralph heard the noise of a struggle and cries of: “Help! Help!” Then silence. The moment he had grasped the fact that Bridget Rousselin was in danger, he had tried to open wide the trap-door, noiselessly. But it stuck; and he lost precious time in forcing it up. Then he dropped on to the landing, ran down to the first floor and found three doors, all closed, to choose from. As chance had it the one he opened was the door of the boudoir: It was empty and two or three chairs had been knocked over. An inner door led to the dressing-room. That was empty too. He stepped into the bedroom whither the actress had fled.