* * * * * The long beam of the headlights swept the château, then picked up the winding road as the car headed back toward the city. D'Artois sat hunched behind the wheel. Farrell shivered at the memory of that ghastly loveliness that had greeted them from the grave. "I know she was dead," reiterated Farrell. "She couldn't have been alive. Not with that dagger I saw jammed into her breast this afternoon. But why did he invite you? What everlastingly damned mummery--there's something behind all this--she's going to greet them in the Garden and there will be no farewell--was that all illusion, or----" Farrell slumped back against the cushions and made a gesture of bewilderment and futility. They left the river road, passed through the Mousserole Gate, and threaded their way through the unsavory quarters between there and the Nive. As they crossed the first of the seven bridges that span the river, d'Artois suddenly jerked back from his crouch behind the wheel. "_Nom de Dieu!_" he exclaimed. Farrell, aroused by the note of alarm, glanced at his companion and saw that the horror on his face was in keeping with the consternation in his voice. The car leaped forward as d'Artois stepped on the accelerator. "Death and damnation!" he shouted above the full-throated roar of the motor. "We sat there like dummies. _That_ is what he wanted!" "What?" demanded Farrell, tense, and alarmed by d'Artois' contagious excitement. A sudden fear seized him. "A trap. Not for your worthless head nor mine, but for her! Thaumaturgy! If there is but one greater damn fool than Glenn Farrell, it is Pierre d'Artois!" They passed the plaza, and with a screech of brakes slowed down enough to make the turn at rue Port Neuf. Then up rue d'Espagne, around the hairpin turn, and thence down the street along the city wall. Again the brake linings smoked their wrath and squealed their protest. Fuming and cursing in a high rage, d'Artois leaped to the curbing, dashed up the steps, and pounded Antoinette Delatour's door with the butt of his pistol. "_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_" cried the terrified, bewildered maid. "Flames and damnation! Open, quick!" demanded d'Artois. "_C'est moi!_" "But she is sleeping," protested the maid, still half asleep. "Hasten, then. If she sleeps, wake her--is she indeed----" And as the door yielded, d'Artois, pistol in hand, charged up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Farrell was but a jump behind him. They pounded on Antoinette's door. No response. "The key----" began d'Artois. But Farrell stepped back, gathered himself, and charged the door. It resisted the shock; but a second assault burst it open, tearing the lock from its socket. The floor of Antoinette's room was covered with fallen plaster. Her bed was empty. A hole two feet square yawned in the ceiling. The turquoise and silver slippers mocked them. "Gone!" muttered Farrell.