"You have brought it?" she said, without a preliminary word. She had thrown a dark cloak over her evening dress, and the man's eyes feasted on her. "Yes, I have brought it--Jean," he said. She put her finger to her lips. "Be careful, François," she cautioned in a low voice. Although the man spoke English as well as he spoke French, it was in the latter language that the conversation was carried on. He went to a grip which lay on the bed, opened it and took out five thick packages of thousand-franc notes. "There are a thousand in each, mademoiselle. Five million francs. I changed part of the money in Paris, and part in London." "The woman--there is no danger from her?" "Oh no, mademoiselle," he smiled complacently. "She is not likely to betray me, and she does not know my name or where I am living. She is a girl I met at a dance at the Swiss Waiters' Club," he explained. "She is not a good character. I think the French police wish to find her, but she is very clever." "What did you tell her?" asked Jean. "That I was working a coup with Vaud and Montheron. These are two notorious men in Paris whom she knew. I gave her five thousand francs for her work." "There was no trouble?" "None whatever, mademoiselle. I watched her, and saw she carried the letter to the bank. As soon as the money was changed I left Croydon by air for Paris, and came on from Paris to Marseilles by aeroplane." "You did well, François," she said, and patted his hand. He would have seized hers, but she drew back. "You have promised, François," she said with dignity, "and a French gentleman keeps his word." François bowed. He was not a French gentleman, but he was anxious that this girl should think he was, and to that end had told her stories of his birth which had apparently impressed her. "Now will you do something more for me?" "I will do anything in the world, Jean," he cried passionately, and again a restraining hand fell on his shoulder. "Then sit down and write; your French is so much better than mine." "What shall I write?" he asked. She had never called upon him for proof of his scholarship, and he was childishly eager to reveal to the woman he loved attainments of which he had no knowledge. "Write, 'Dear Mademoiselle'." He obeyed. "'_have returned from London, and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn £100,000 from her bank----_'" "Why do I write this, Jean?" he asked in surprise. "I will tell you one day--go on. François," she continued her dictation. "'_And now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one end to this--that which you see----_'" "Do you intend passing suspicion to somebody else?" he asked, evidently fogged, "but why should I say----?" She stopped his mouth with her hand.