The Baronne and her niece lived there. That was about all that they could tell us. Apparently they knew nothing of Paulton--had never seen or heard of him. How many servants had there been in the Chateau they knew not. But a man and several women had just left the lodge in a motor-car. "We can do no good by staying here," Faulkner said at last. "We had better make for Digne. What puzzles me is, where can the servants be? There must have been servants, and they could have told us something. They are not at the lodge. Perhaps Paulton had taken them with him in the car we had seen. The only soul at the lodge is an old woman who is stone deaf, and she is crying so that she cannot speak at all." We stood gazing thoughtfully at the still smouldering fire, when Faulkner said suddenly-- "What is that big, square thing down among the twisted girders?" and he pointed to it. We could not make out what it was. Then, all at once I realised. "Why," I said, "it's a safe--one of those big American safes. I expect its contents are uninjured." But where was Vera? Ah! I felt beside myself in anxiety--a breathless, burning longing, to know how fared the one woman in all the world who held me in her hands for life, or for death. She loved me, truly and well--of that I was convinced. And yet she existed in that mysterious hateful bondage--a bondage which, alas! she dared not attempt to break. What could be the truth? Why were her lips closed?--Ay, why indeed? I dreaded to think. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. IN WHICH THE MASK IS RAISED. Three days had passed. Two curious things happened while we were sitting in the atrium of the Casino in Monte Carlo during the interval. In the first place Paulton's friend, Henderson, whom I had met only on that one occasion in the fumoir of the hotel, happened to saunter in. He looked hard at both of us, but either did not recognise us--a thing that I think hardly possible--or else deliberately cut us. Later, I went over to the buffet with Faulkner, for the play was not interesting, and we had decided to leave. A dozen men stood there, talking, and suddenly I caught the word "D'Uzerche." They were talking of the fire three days previously. Anxious to hear all I could about Chateau d'Uzerche, I moved a little nearer. "They've not discovered the Baronne's body," I heard the young Frenchman say, "and apparently no one else was burnt. I wonder if those old rumours one heard about the Baronne were really true?" "What rumours?" his companion, a bald-headed gambler, asked. "I don't seem to remember hearing any." "You mean to say you have never heard the stories that everybody knows?" the first speaker exclaimed. "My dear fellow, where do you live?" "In Paris as a rule," his friend answered drily. "I returned here last week." "Ah, pardon me, I had forgotten. Well, it has long been common talk--"