The young man introduced himself. It was the Comte de Roncherolles. "May I ask to whom I have the honour . . ." "Victorien Beaugrand," I replied. And, without further preamble, confiding in the man's looks, which were frank and friendly, I said: "I have come about Bérangère. She's here, isn't she? She has found a shelter here?" The Comte de Roncherolles flushed slightly and eyed me with a certain attention. I took his hand: "If you please, monsieur, the position is very serious. Bérangère is being hunted down by an extremely dangerous man." "Who is that?" "Velmot." "Velmot?" The count threw off all further disguise as useless and repeated: "Velmot! Velmot! The enemy whom she loathes! . . . Yes, she has everything to fear from the man. Fortunately, he does not know where she is." "He does know . . . since yesterday," I exclaimed. "Granted. But he will need time to make his preparations, to plan his move." "He was seen not far from here, yesterday, by people of the village." I began to tell him what I knew. He did not wait for me to finish. Evidently as anxious as myself, he drew me towards a lodge, standing some distance from the house, which Bérangère occupied. He knocked. There was no answer. But the door was open. He entered and went upstairs to Bérangère's room. She was not there. He did not seem greatly surprised. "She often goes out early," he said. "Perhaps she is at the house?" I suggested. "With my wife? No, my wife is not very well and would not be up yet." "What then?" "I presume she has gone for her ordinary walk to the ruins of the old castle. She likes the view there, which embraces Bougival and the whole river." "Is it far?" "No, just at the end of the park." Nevertheless the park stretched some way back; and it took us four or five minutes' walk to reach a circular clearing from which we could see a few lengths of broken wall perched on the top of a ridge among some fallen heaps of stone-work. "There," said the count. "Bérangère has been to this bench. She has left the book which she was reading." "And a scarf too," I said, anxiously. "Look, a rumpled scarf. . . . And the grass round about shows signs of having been trampled on. . . . My God, I hope nothing has happened to the poor child!" I had not finished speaking when we heard cries from the direction of the ruins, cries for help or cries of pain, we could not tell which. We at once darted along the narrow path which ran up the hill, cutting across the winding forest-road. When we were half-way up, the cries broke out again; and a woman's figure came into view among the crumbling stones of the old castle. "Bérangère!" I cried, increasing my pace. She did not see me. She was running, as though she had some one in pursuit of her, and taking advantage of every bit of shelter that the ruins offered. Presently a man appeared, looking for her and threatening her with a revolver which he carried in his hand. "It's he!" I stammered. "It's Velmot!"