“When you were gone, monsieur, and the _huissiers_ were still here”--George started; he had forgotten the _huissiers_, and their disappearance had not troubled him--“a gentleman called, monsieur, saying he was a friend of yours, and he asked for you; and when I said you were out he said he would see madame. She came out to see him, monsieur, and shrieked when she met him; I know, monsieur, because I followed her into the room after helping her to dress, and she told me to stay.” George held himself as still as stone, afraid of stopping the recital. “A dark-skinned man,” he said, not questioningly. “Yes, monsieur. Madame wished to retire, but he would not allow it. I gathered that he said the mother of madame was waiting to see her, and that you, monsieur, were with her, and that she had sent money to get monsieur and madame out of their little difficulty. So he paid the men and got a receipt from them, and they left. And madame put on her things and went away with him in a _fiacre_. And I am sure, monsieur, that if I had supposed you would have any objection----” George let her hand drop. “When did they go?” he asked in a strangled whisper. “Not long after you, monsieur. I am sure I thought every moment that you would be back together. But, ah! monsieur is ill! Can I not assist you? Some _eau de vie_----” George had reeled into a chair and was breathing heavily. This last shock brought no pang; something began clicking and whirring in his head, and he thought he felt a hard, cold substance pressing closer and closer to his neck till he could not breathe, but began to choke and to gurgle, tearing with both hands at his throat to get the tightening grip away. “Ah, the knife! the knife!” he burst out hoarsely, as he staggered up on to his feet with starting eyes and labouring breath. “Take her away! take her away! Don’t let her see me!” And he fell to the floor in a fit, just as a loud knocking began on the outer door of the flat.