Frank’s countenance cleared once more; he could embrace his wife now with a clear conscience, and accordingly he turned with extended arms. “Fenella,” he cried, “_Mrs. Right!_” “_Doggie, my own Doggie!_” was the ringing response, and the pair were folded in one another’s arms. Jacynth had turned away. Pardon him, reader, if at that supreme moment of reconciliation his own heart was too sore and bitter to bear the sight of the happiness which had been mainly his own work. Devoted friend, self-contained, distinguished barrister as he was, he was still many removes from an angel. But the sound of the old pet names, the names she remembered on the envelope returned to Chiddingford from the Dead Letter Office, seemed to exasperate Lucille de Vigny to a fury that would not have disgraced a fiend. It must be remembered, in justice to her, that she had loved this man with all the ardor of a passionate, undisciplined nature, she had lost him, had been on the verge of recapturing him, and now he had escaped her once more, and something told her that this time it was forever! “Very pretty, my faith!” she said, with a bitter laugh of mingled rage and despair. “_Quelle innocence, mon Dieu!_ You have defenders--is it not?--who combine military duties with a naval footing? How do you call them, _hein_? I forget.” “Possibly, madame,” suggested Jacynth gravely, “you refer to the Marines?” “The Marines--it is that, yes. Well, tell this fine story to them--to your Marines. Or, better still, for I hear them, they are here at last, to your detectives, and see what they will say to you!” Her fine instinct had not deceived her this time; almost before she had finished speaking a couple of men in plain clothes came into the room. They had the sharp, roving eye of the trained sleuthhound, and one of them carried a pair of steel handcuffs. “There is the man you seek,” cried Lucille, pointing to Frank, who stood quietly awaiting his captors in the center of the room. “Ah, my poor Doggie, you have had your day!” “Begging your pardon, madame,” said one of the men, not uncivilly, slipping the handcuffs over Lucille’s slender wrists, “but _you’re_ the party we’re after. You have given us the slip often enough, but I think we’ve got you safe this time.” Mme. de Vigny’s face changed; for an instant she seemed to contemplate resistance, and then she submitted to the inevitable, and followed her captors to the door. On the threshold she paused and looked back with a gaze of concentrated hate upon the party. “Bah!” she ejaculated, and then, with an indescribable gesture of defiant contempt, she walked out of the room, and out of the lives her baleful influence had done so much to perturb. As soon as she was gone, Frank, with a sudden recollection, inquired, “And the boy, our Ronny, Fenella? He is not ill--not _again_? Tell me the worst. I--I can bear it!”