“But I don’t think I’m feeling much better this morning; perhaps I’m nervous. At any rate, I have a little piece of business to see to. Go down and ask the proprietor if he could give you the address of some good English lawyer, and then go and bring him here.” There were drops of cold dampness on his forehead as he finished speaking. Parker, after one glance at him, went out with noiseless haste. Yet, for all his pain, it was with a great thankfulness at his heart that Sir Gaspard lay back in his chair. The letter from Cristiane had been full of pleasant things concerning Helen Trelane and her daughter. She was very happy with them, and if he did not mind, would he ask them to stay on a little while when he came back. There was not a word about Miles Cylmer in the letter; only praises of the two women. “So I can make it all right this morning,” the man thought feverishly, “if only Parker can find the lawyer. And then I’ll go on to Rome.” His head felt light and dizzy with pain. He had but two thoughts, oddly intermingled: to make everything easy for Cristiane, and then to creep away to die where his love had died, so many years ago. He looked up in surprise as Parker came back. “I didn’t have to leave the hotel, sir,” he said; “there is an English lawyer staying here, and I brought him up.” “You’re sure he’s all right--qualified--and that?” anxiously. “I don’t want any trouble.” “Sure, sir. They know him well here.” “All right. Bring him in.” He looked at the stranger Parker ushered in with a momentary curiosity. He was a very ugly man; tall, dark, thick-lipped, almost repulsive. But he was well-dressed and clean-shaved, and moved with a certain air of gentlemanliness. His voice, too, was cultivated. Sir Gaspard noticed this as he introduced himself, and gave a card with his address in London Chambers. “Mr. Marcus Wray,” the card read. The name meant nothing to Sir Gaspard, though his own lawyers could have told him it was that of a clever man who sailed perilously close to the wind, and had once very nearly been disbarred. Only his cleverness had saved him; there were no proofs ever to be found against Mr. Marcus Wray. His business in Paris just now was not too safe, but he stayed at a good hotel and went about it so carefully as to pass for a model of English propriety. He talked very little as Sir Gaspard gave his instructions. He wished, he said, to make a new will, and draw up some papers for the guardianship of his only daughter. “Please make it all short,” Le Marchant ended. “I had meant to have my own lawyer do it when I got back to England, but----” he did not finish. Marcus Wray made no answer as he sat at a table Parker had covered with writing-materials. The man was ill enough to have no time to lose, it was plain--but not an inkling of that opinion showed itself on the lawyer’s ugly, impassive face.