And then, suddenly, he stopped. Stopped coldly and completely, as if he had been turned to stone. Deep within him an idea was growing. An idea so stupendous that it made his brain reel within his skull. He whirled on the drunk. "What did you say your name was?" "'M Gustav Jerbette. 'M pain'er. Bes' dam' pain'er--" The next instant the tipsy one was reeling backward into his room under the impetus of a powerful shove. "Hey! Wha's idea?" he burbled. "Qui' pushin'--" "Shut up, you stew-bum! I'm going to sober you up if I have to kill you! You've got a job to do!" * * * * * The doctor was a grave, bearded man. At last he rose from beside Elaine's straw bed in the fire-gutted chateau. "How is she, doctor? Is there any hope?" Mark's voice was choked with emotion, his face drawn and haggard with strain. Slowly, the medical man shook his head. "I am sorry, _m'sieur_," he said quietly. "I can offer you little solace. Her lungs already are filling. I doubt that she can last until morning." The other was breathing hard. His eyes were like fiery gimlets. "Isn't there anything you can do?" he begged, half-sobbing. "Can't you at least give her something so she'll recover consciousness? I must talk to her--" "That I can do." The physician turned back to the bed. Raised the dying girl's head from the pallet to administer doses of several medicines. "I have done all I can," he said. "From here it is in the hands of _Le Bon Dieu_." Dazedly, Mark thanked him. Paid him with coins from Jacques Rombeau's wallet. The door to the room beyond opened on sagging hinges and Gustav Jerbette stepped out. His eyes still were red-rimmed from drink, but otherwise he appeared sober. "It's done," he said in a disgusted tone. "Lord knows it looks like nothing in this world or the next, but it's done." Again Mark dealt out coins. The old peasant entered the room. "The baron is furious," he reported grimly. "They are searching every hut and hovel--" The doctor shifted his feet nervously. "Since there is nothing more I can do--" he murmured. Mark seemed to shake off the strange, dream-like lassitude that gripped him. "Of course, gentlemen. All of you have done your best. But there isn't any need of your staying longer, imperiling your lives by the chances of Baron Morriere's vengeance. Please leave--and my thanks go with you." Out they marched, a weird procession: painter, doctor, peasant. Only the old man hesitated at the door. "God be with you, friend!" he whispered, and pulled the heavy portal shut behind him. Like a man in a trance, Mark watched them go. His feet were spread apart; fists clenched. Nor did the Sphinx at Giza look out upon the world with a face more grey or stony or implacable than was his. "History!" he cried aloud, and his voice was half-hysterical. "Damn history! I'll beat it yet! Those devils shan't have Elaine--" "Jacques!"