"That is certain," I said, "and it might be worth while to come to terms with him; but I should not allow him to rob you. M. Felix, so far as we know, did not make a will. Doubtless he has left property of some kind, and should your marriage be proved the property would be yours. Indeed, in that case it would be yours if M. Felix were living and in this room at the present moment." Emilia shuddered, and looked around timorously. "Have you any idea what can have become of his body?" she asked in a whisper. "No; I can form no theory upon that mystery. I would give a great deal to unravel it." "Is it possible that Dr. Peterssen can have taken it away?" "It is more than possible, it is probable; but his motive for doing so is as great a mystery as the disappearance of the body without his intervention. A deliberate act of that kind is done with a deliberate motive, and I can think of none which would prompt him to carry into execution a scheme so full of risk. And now listen attentively to what I say. Setting aside the danger attendant upon your nocturnal visit to M. Felix--a danger which I trust will in time entirely disappear--it is of the highest importance to you that you should obtain proof of your marriage with Gerald Paget." "It is all I desire," said Emilia. "That obtained, I should be content to die." "It will be better to live, to draw happiness from the union of your daughter and Julian Bordier. My plan is this: That you and I go to your native town, and starting from the house of the maiden ladies who were so good to you on the night of the fire, endeavor to trace the road you took when you flew from the shelter they gave you. You remember the river----" "I can never, never forget it," said Emilia, "nor the fearful thoughts which seemed to force me toward it." "There will be little difficulty in ascertaining your route thus far on your journey. From that point we will make inquiries, and it may be that we shall succeed in discovering the road the kind old wagoner took toward his home. That done, all the rest is easy." "Dear friend," she said, pressing my hand, "how can I thank you?" "Thank me when success crowns our efforts. Are you ready to take the journey? We will start to-morrow morning." "But Constance!" she exclaimed. "She cannot go with us. She is ignorant of my sad story." "Let her remain so. I have provided for her comfort while we are away. I have spoken to my mother--a lady in whom you can place implicit confidence--and she will be glad if your daughter will accept her hospitality during our absence. You may trust her; your daughter will be well cared for." "I know that, I know that," said Emilia, her tears overflowing. "But what have I done to merit such goodness? What claim have I upon you?" "The claim of a helpless, persecuted lady," I replied, gently. "What I do is willingly, cheerfully done. Accept my offer, and you will make me your debtor. It will be ample reward if I succeed."