“I know the lad too well to interfere,” replied Colonel Geraldine, “and well enough not to be alarmed. He is more cautious than you fancy, and of an indomitable spirit. If it had been a woman I should not say so much, but I trust the President to him and the two valets without an instant’s apprehension.” “I am gratified to hear you say so,” replied the Prince; “but my mind is not at rest. These servants are well-trained spies, and already has not this miscreant succeeded three times in eluding their observation and spending several hours on end in private, and most likely dangerous, affairs? An amateur might have lost him by accident, but if Rudolph and Jérome were thrown off the scent, it must have been done on purpose, and by a man who had a cogent reason and exceptional resources.” “I believe the question is now one between my brother and myself,” replied Geraldine, with a shade of offence in his tone. “I permit it to be so, Colonel Geraldine,” returned Prince Florizel. “Perhaps, for that very reason, you should be all the more ready to accept my counsels. But enough. That girl in yellow dances well.” And the talk veered into the ordinary topics of a Paris ballroom in the Carnival. Silas remembered where he was, and that the hour was already near at hand when he ought to be upon the scene of his assignation. The more he reflected the less he liked the prospect, and as at that moment an eddy in the crowd began to draw him in the direction of the door, he suffered it to carry him away without resistance. The eddy stranded him in a corner under the gallery, where his ear was immediately struck with the voice of Madame Zéphyrine. She was speaking in French with the young man of the blond locks who had been pointed out by the strange Britisher not half-an-hour before. “I have a character at stake,” she said, “or I would put no other condition than my heart recommends. But you have only to say so much to the porter, and he will let you go by without a word.” “But why this talk of debt?” objected her companion. “Heavens!” said she, “do you think I do not understand my own hotel?” And she went by, clinging affectionately to her companion’s arm. This put Silas in mind of his billet. “Ten minutes hence,” thought he, “and I may be walking with as beautiful a woman as that, and even better dressed—perhaps a real lady, possibly a woman or title.” And then he remembered the spelling, and was a little downcast. “But it may have been written by her maid,” he imagined.