Again he sat in his own familiar study, surrounded by the good company of his books, while the fire burned red in the grate and his old hound dozed upon the rug at his feet. This was his proper place—his own _milieu_—of which he thought by day and dreamed by night. His longings to escape magnified these nightly dreams into passions. He was always trying to get home. He took abortive railway journeys, when the train broke down and changed into inadequate rubbish, leaving him stranded in unfriendly country. Sometimes he boarded a steamer, which ploughed its way through fields and streets, ever seeking a far-receded sea. These nightmares were varied by the nerve-racking experience of ceaseless preparations for a journey, which ended in the poignant pang of reaching the station only to see the express dash through, its lighted windows merging into one golden streak. Often, too, he tried to fly home—even as a bird—swooping from his bedroom window in vain essay at flight, and sinking lower into the darkness at each impotent stroke. His distraught mind, flashing its S.O.S. signals across the sea, must have stirred the rest of those who slumbered safely in that lamppost-lit, policeman-guarded isle. For influence began its wire-pulling work, its efforts resulting in the promise of the special train that was to convey certain refugees homewards by way of neutral territory. To-morrow would be the day. ‘I am going home—to-morrow!’ He silently repeated the words with a thrill of joyful anticipation, fingering his papers and passport the while, to assure himself of their truth. Thus fortified, he nerved himself for another question. ‘By the way, madame, speaking of poor M. Lemoine. Who—who gave information?’ ‘A woman betrayed him.’ Involuntarily, Quality started. He had not before noticed the grating rasp of madame’s voice. It irritated him to unreasonable resentment and disgust. ‘A woman? Damnable!’ ‘_Plaît-il?_’ Madame raised her brows in interrogation. ‘But why? M. Lemoine sold his secrets for gold. The woman sold her secret for gold. _C’est égal!_’ How furiously her needles flew! In just such manner must her forbears have sat, knitting and counting in the blood-sodden days of the Revolution. ‘But, madame’—Quality’s voice was vibrant with horror—‘how can you call it _equal_? It is inconceivable that a woman, with a woman’s heart beating within her breast, should sell a life merely for money!’ ‘Ah, m’sieur!’—Madame laughed mirthlessly—‘it is easy to see that all your life you have had more than enough. For the others, though—What will they not do for gold?’ She proceeded to answer her own question by illustration.