Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in the carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter had been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person between Colville and the window; which might, after all, have been due to stupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's theory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firm basis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly always confers on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposed to continue that course of treatment. “Take my word,” she had assured Colville, “he was only acting in his usual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brief fits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or anything that he can do. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding Loo Barebone again.” Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; and thought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for John Turner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two ways of getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer than you are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. But the latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides must necessarily be shared with no confidant. Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, where she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicing in a select Royalist clientele on the Place Vendome. On arriving at the capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought had gone out a few minutes earlier. “But Madame's maid,” the porter added, “is no doubt within.” Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's room, and was hardly there before the lady's French maid came hurrying in with upraised hands. “A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!” she exclaimed. “Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she was agitated--she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me nothing; but I know--I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years! And there is only one thing that could cause her anxiety--except, of course, any mishap to Monsieur; that would touch the heart--yes!” “You are very kind, Catherine,” said Colville, with a laugh, “to think me so important. Is that letter for me?” And he pointed to a note in the woman's hand. “But--yes!” was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhat reluctantly. “There is only one thing, and that is money,” she concluded, watching him tear open the envelope. “I am going to John Turner's office,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence wrote. “If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through Paris, and happen to call this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L.”