"Do you want to go to prison while he's left free--to _marry his girl in Marseilles_?" That was a chance shot, but it found its billet. "He _has_ no girl in Marseilles!" Simone shrilled. "Oh, yes, he has. I have his _dossier_ from the Paris police. If you get him here and make him tell the truth, I promise you that marriage won't take place." "I will call him," said Simone, sickly pale. She flitted across the room to the telephone. Sanders rubbed his hands, and nodded to Jack. But Jack was glancing at his wrist-watch. "What am I to do?" he asked the detective in a low voice. "The time's almost here for me to keep my appointment with Mademoiselle Pavoya." "Go to it!" said Sanders. "I'm equal to Simone and Defasquelle. Now I've got proof enough to bluff on--my waiter man 'phoned that the pair were talking about the pearls and apparently blackguarding each other! I'll strip them of their secrets like a tree of ripe fruit. But look here, I have a 'hunch' that there's more in this _Inner Circle_ business than meets the eye. Simone's been a catspaw. There may be wheels within wheels. When you go to meet Mademoiselle Pavoya take my tip and accept Old Nick's offer." "What, have him with me?" "Yes, wherever Pavoya sends you." "She may not send me anywhere." "I think she will send you somewhere. Meanwhile, I'll pump Simone and Defasquelle dry. When you get back I may have the pearls in pink cotton!" Manners was torn. He wished to hear what Simone said over the telephone. He wished to stay and witness the scene through between her, Defasquelle, and Sanders. But most of all he wished not to be late for Lyda. _Nothing_ was worth that! Jack arrived at the theatre just after Lyda had finished rehearsing a dance which she herself had arranged for the charity fête with Mrs. Van Esten's spoiled little girl. Mademoiselle Pavoya was in her dressing room, he was told, and was expecting him. He went there quickly, afraid of being caught by someone he knew on the way, and forced to stop and talk nonsense, for the place was like a rabbit-warren--alive with pretty women and men who thought they were Society incarnate. Lyda wore the swan costume she had worn the first night of their meeting--or one much like it; and the thought of that wonderful night thrilled him. How had he lived before that time? Yet he had gone out of her presence to doubt her truth, her honour! Never could he forgive himself for that, never could he worship her quite enough to make up for those hours of disloyalty. She held out her hands to him, and he crushed first one then the other against his lips. "My Swan Goddess!" he exclaimed. "You're too marvellous like this. I can hardly believe you're flesh and blood--that I'm not dreaming you. I love you so much!" She drew her hands away, and pushed him back when he would have taken her in his arms, wings and all.