He made no reply, but still advanced towards her, when, with a terrible cry, she recoiled from him. “Blood!” she screamed, “ah, heavens! he has blood upon his hands!” Norbert glanced downwards; upon the wristband of his shirt there was a tell-tale crimson stain. The Duchess raised her hand, and pointed towards the door. “Leave me,” said she, with an extraordinary assumption of energy, “leave me; the secret of your crime is safe; I will not betray you or hand you over to justice. But remember that a murdered man stands between us, and that I loathe and execrate you.” Rage and jealousy tortured Norbert’s soul. Though George de Croisenois was no more, he was still his successful rival in Marie’s love. “You forget,” said he in a voice hoarse with passion, “that you are mine, and that, as your husband, I can make your existence one long scene of agony and misery. Keep this fact in your memory. To-morrow, at six o’clock, I shall be here.” The clock was striking two as he left the house and hastened to the spot where he had left his horse. The soldier was still pacing backwards and forwards, leading the Duke’s horse. “My faith!” said the man, as soon as he perceived Norbert, “you pay precious long visits. I had only leave to go to the theatre, and I shall get into trouble over this.” “Pshaw! I promised you twenty francs. Here are two louis.” The soldier pocketed the money with an air of delighted surprise, and Norbert sprang into the saddle. An hour later he gave the appointed signal upon the window pane, behind which the trusty Jean was waiting. “Take care that no one sees you as you take the horse to the stable,” said the Duke hastily, “and then come to me, for I want your assistance and advice.” CHAPTER XVIII. THE HEIR OF CHAMPDOCE. As long as she was in Norbert’s presence, anger and indignation gave the Duchess de Champdoce strength; but as soon as she was left alone her energy gave way, and with an outburst of tears she sank, half fainting, upon a couch. Her despair was augmented from the fact that she felt that had it not been for her, George de Croisenois would never have met with his death. “Had I not made that fatal appointment,” she sobbed, “he would be alive and well now; my love has slain him as surely as if my hand had held the steel that has pierced his heart!” She at first thought of seeking refuge with her father, but abandoned the idea almost immediately, for she felt that he would refuse to enter into her grievance, or would say, “You are a duchess; you have an enormous fortune. You must be happy; and if you are not, it must be your own fault.” In terrible anguish the night passed away; and when her maids entered the room, they found her lying on the floor, dressed as she had been the night before. No one knew what to do, and messengers were dispatched in all directions to summon medical advice.