As soon as she was gone Laurence got up, went into her bedroom, and, taking a diminutive bunch of keys from her pocket, shifted the _arras_, disclosing a narrow steel panel, which after some incantation of an arithmetical nature she got open. Behind a second fire-proof door, _écrin_ upon _écrin_ stood revealed, and these she precipitately opened. From a side-shelf of metal she brought forth a broad, flat reindeer-leather bag, hanging from a practically unbreakable belt, and hurriedly thrust into its many snug compartments the greater part of the jewel-safe’s contents. Emeralds, rubies, pearls, sapphires, but especially diamonds--strings and rivers and clusters of diamonds--sparkled through her busy fingers and disappeared. Then she plunged her hand farther into the recess, and, drawing out a thick packet of large bank-notes, stowed them away by themselves in a separate pocket. One move more, and with a click a secret drawer flew open. From this Laurence snatched a square linen-lined envelope full of letters, pressed it almost mechanically to her lips, and, slipping it beneath the notes, pulled up her skirt, fastened the belt tightly around her slender waist, and, having put everything in order, returned to the boudoir. She was just in time to hear Célèste’s tap, and opened instantly. “Well?” she asked. “_Bien!_ Madame la Princesse! _Très-bien!_ Fidèlka was lounging in the saddle-room--and for a consideration he’ll do it!” “How much?” demanded Laurence, unconsciously touching the leather bag beneath her crumpled velvets. “What have you paid? How much?” she repeated. Célèste, who stood behind Laurence, busily unclasping the hooks of her tea-gown, laughed a mischievous laugh. “A great deal--a great--great deal!” “But how much?” repeated Laurence, vainly trying to look over her shoulder at the little maid. “Madame la Princesse needn’t worry,” the latter gurgled, “nor does Madame la Princesse owe me anything.” “Why?” “Because I paid from my own private treasury.” The soft dress had just fallen to the ground in a crushed circle about Laurence’s feet, and Célèste’s face, as she bent down for it, was pink as a June rose. “Kisses!” exclaimed Laurence. “Only kisses?” “But that’s a great deal. Though I would have given even more to serve Madame la Princesse.” And gathering fur and velvet into her arms, Célèste rushed into the adjoining bath-room, where a moment later she was noisily turning on both taps. CHAPTER XIII For pulling Incompetence out of the mire Your guerdon is Hatred, and nothing higher. “What time is it?” the Duchesse de Salvières asked as best she could through her face-coverings, of the man who sat beside her in the flying sleigh, so enveloped in furs that he looked like a bear.