Denham looked up slowly as she came to his side; and, though he received the packet from her hand, he would have put it aside without attention. “Ouvrez-le, ouvrez-le, vîte!” she urged impatiently. “Who brought it?” “A gentleman travelling from Paris. Ouvrez-le!” Denham roused himself with difficulty to obey. “A passport!” he said with listless surprise and a slight laugh. “Not the passport for Roy surely? Rather late in the day.” “But read—read!” implored Lucille; and he made an effort to do so. Then a rush of colour came, and he looked at Lucille, a strange gleam in his eyes. “This!—What does it mean?” “It means that you are free! Free to go home.” From the others broke a chorus of exclamations. “Buonaparte’s signature! It must be all right!” Ivor spoke in a bewildered tone. “But what can have made him choose me? Why not Colonel Baron?” “Are you not glad?” “Glad!” The word was too absurdly inadequate. He walked across to Colonel Baron. “Will you read this, sir? Tell me if I understand it rightly.” Colonel Baron complied, then passed the papers on to his wife and Jack, while he grasped Ivor’s hand. “I congratulate you with all my heart,” he said. “Nothing could have given me greater delight. For your sake, not for ours.” “But to leave you all here still——” “Don’t think of that. Your duty is to go. Your being here does not make our captivity easier. No”—decidedly, in answer to a glance—“not when you look as you have done lately.” “What are the conditions? I can’t read to-day.” “Not to bear arms against the French Army for twelve months from the date of your reaching England, unless an exchange is arranged sooner. It will not be, of course! There is no exchange for détenus. That only means that for one year you will be still a prisoner on parole; only in England instead of in France. It will take you some months to grow strong enough for fighting.” “I am strong already,” was the answer; and even in those few minutes it was remarkable how his face had changed, gaining a healthier tint and losing its languor, while the very hollows seemed to be already filling up. “One year from the day I arrive in England! Then I must be off at once—not lose a day.” “Next week,” suggested Jack. “To-morrow. But I cannot understand. What can have induced the Emperor to free me? Why me more than any other détenu?” “Ask Mademoiselle de St. Roques,” said Jack; and this brought upon Lucille a flood of questions. She related simply, and in few words, what she had done, not specifying, as she had specified to Jack, the precise manner of description given of Ivor’s health. Denham lifted her hand to his lips. “It is you, then, whom I have to thank!” he said, much moved. “But no thanks could repay what you have done. I can never forget this debt.” Then he turned to Mrs. Baron. “You have said nothing yet!”