“I have the honour to reintroduce myself to monsieur le duc,” he said. “I congratulate monsieur le duc upon the safe return of those, with the delivery of a letter referring to whose movements in England I some months ago had the pleasure to charge myself.” The prince’s eyes opened and shut like an owl’s. His bilious face seemed to deprecate a peevish derision it could not withhold. “I do not recognise,” he began, looking through mere slits between lids, “whom I have----” then suddenly he checked himself impatiently and turned to his companion with a shrug of his shoulders. “My lord,” he said, “let me make known to you M. le Vicomte Murk, who once was good enough to constitute himself Hermes to your adorable Pamela.” Ned stood rigid under the shock of all that was implied in the insolence. The duke’s young companion stepped forward and shook him by the hand. Did this stranger know, or intuitively guess, something of the silent tragedy that was enacting before him? His soft eyes were at least full of generosity and sympathy. “I know your lordship by name,” he said. “I am Lord Edward Fitzgerald; and I am sure Pamela will like to thank you in person for your disinterested service.” Ned drew himself up, like a martial hero giving the signal for his own execution. “I will take my sentence from her lips,” he said to the kind eyes, and passed into the box. He was close to her at last--and for the last time. She turned to glance at him, and instantly away again, with a pert tilt of her chin. He saw her stealthily advance a hand in the shadow, and twitch her companion by the skirt. The little lady gave a start. “What is the matter, coquine?” she exclaimed. Then she saw Ned, flushed pink, and dropped the gentleman a shy bow. She was happy to renew monsieur’s acquaintance, she said. And had monsieur been in Paris all these months since they last had the pleasure of seeing him in “nôtre cher Bury”? Yes, monsieur had been in Paris the whole time: that was to say, ever since, in pursuit of monsieur le duc, he had left Belgium, whither, it would appear, he had been despatched on a fool’s errand. Mademoiselle gave a little deprecating shrug of her shoulders. “And monsieur, no doubt, has justified us in our choice of a messenger?” murmured Pamela, from ambush of the box curtains. Ned turned upon the young voice. His tongue was dry; his very features seemed stiffened into a mechanical expression of suffering. “Yes,” he said. “I have been as great a fool as Uriah.”