My love for the girl suddenly became purged of all the doubts and suspicions that had poisoned it. For the rest, I did not trouble about these details and troubled myself neither to explain her conduct nor to establish the least proof for or against her. Even if her kiss had not already wiped out every disagreeable recollection, the danger which she was incurring was enough to restore all my faith in her and all my affection. My first enquiries at Ville d'Avray, Marnes and Vaucresson told me nothing. The Château de Pré-Bony was unknown. At La Cello-Saint-Cloud I encountered a fresh check. But here, in an inn, I seemed to recover, thanks to the accident of a casual question, the traces of the man Velmot: a tall, white-faced gentleman, I was told, who often motored along the Bougival road and who had been seen prowling outside the village that very morning. I questioned my informant more closely. It really was Velmot. He had four hours' start of me. _And he knew where to go! And he was in love with Bérangère!_ Four hours' start, for that clever and daring scoundrel, who was staking his all on this last throw of the die! Who could stop him? What scruples had he? To seize upon Bérangère, to hold her in his power, to compel her to speak: all this was now mere child's play. _And he was in love with Bérangère!_ I remember striking the inn-table with my fist and exclaiming, angrily: "No, no, it's not possible! . . . The house in question is bound to be somewhere near here! . . . They must show me the way!" Thenceforward I did not experience a moment's hesitation. On the one hand, I was not mistaken in coming to this district. On the other hand, I knew that Velmot, having heard what Massignac said and knowing the country by having lived in it, had begun his campaign at dawn. There was a crowd of people outside the inn. Feverishly I put the questions which remained unanswered. At last, some one mentioned a cross-roads which was sometimes known by the name of Pré-Bony and which was on the Saint-Cucufa road, some two or three miles away. One of the roads which branched from it led to a new house, of not very imposing appearance, which was inhabited by a young married couple, the Comte and Comtesse de Roncherolles. I really had the impression that it was my sheer will-power that had brought about this favourable incident and, so to speak, created, lock, stock and barrel and within my reach, that unknown country-house which it behoved me to visit that very instant. I made my way there hurriedly. At the moment when I was walking across the garden, a young man alighted from horseback at the foot of the steps. "Is this the Château de Pré-Bony?" I asked. He flung the reins of his horse to a groom and replied, with a smile: "At least that is what they call it, a little pompously, at Bougival." "Oh," I murmured, as though taken aback by an unhoped for piece of news, "it's here . . . and I am in time!"