"They are very good," she said slowly,--"beautiful colour and shape." Then she raised her eyes, and they fell once more on the bottle. "But what am I thinking of?" she said sharply. "There is the clue I need staring me in the face. How incredibly stupid I am! There is the Paris chemist's name on it, and the number of the prescription. I can wire to him for the address to which he sent the bottle." "Dick has a valet at his address," said Annette, "and of course he would know all about his people." "How do you know he has a valet?" "He met Dick at the station with the luggage. He was to have come to Fontainebleau with him, but Dick sent him back at the last moment, I suppose because of--me." "Would you know him again if you saw him?" "Yes. I watched Dick talking to him for several minutes. He would not go away at first. Perhaps he knew Dick was ill and needed care." "Most likely. Did he see you?" "No." "Are you certain?" "Quite certain." "There is then one microscopic mercy to be thankful for. Then no one knows that you are here with Mr. Le Geyt?" "No one, but I dare say it will be known presently," said Annette apathetically. "Not if I can prevent it," said Mrs. Stoddart to herself as she put on her pince-nez and went out to telegraph to the chemist. Annette went back to the bedside, and the Sister withdrew to the window and got out her breviary. Annette sat down and leaned her tired head against the pillow with something like envy of Dick's unconsciousness. Would a certain hideous picture ever be blotted out from her aching brain? Her only respite from it was when she could minister to Dick. He was her sole link with life, the one fixed point in a shifting quicksand. She came very near to loving him in these days. Presently he stirred and sighed, and opened his eyes. They wandered to the ceiling, and then fell idly on her without knowing her, as they had done a hundred times. Then recognition slowly dawned in them, clear and grave. She raised her head, and they looked long at each other. "Annette," he said in a whisper, "I am sorry." She tried to speak, but no words came. "Often, often, when I have been lying here," he said feebly, "I have been sorry, but I could never say so. Just when I saw your face clear I always went away again, a long way off. Would you mind holding my hand, so that I may not be blown away again?" She took it in both of hers and held it. There was a long silence. A faint colour fluttered in his leaden cheek. "I never knew such a wind," he said. "It's stronger than anything in the world, and it blows and blows, and I go hopping before it like a leaf. I have to go. I really can't stay." "You are much better. You will soon be able to get up." "I don't know where I'm going, but I don't care. I don't want to get up. I'm tired--tired." "You must not talk any more." "Yes, I must. I have things to say. You are holding my hand tight, Annette?" "Yes. Look, I have it safe in mine."