And, after a moment of scarcely perceptible hesitation, Vanderlyn answered, "I have nothing new to tell," but as they both sat down, as he saw how sad and worn the kind face had become in the last three days, there came over him a strong wish to confide in her--to tell her the whole truth. He longed, with morbid longing, to share his knowledge. She, after all, was the only human being who knew the story of his tragic, incomplete love. It would be an infinite comfort and relief to tell her, if not everything, then at least of the irony, the uselessness, of their present search. Since last night the secret no longer seemed to be his alone. But Vanderlyn resisted the temptation. He had no right to cast even half his burden on another. Any moment the odious experience which had, it seemed, already befallen Madame de Lera might be repeated. She might again be cross-questioned by the police. In that event it was essential that she should be still able truthfully to declare that she knew nothing. "I have just come from Tom Pargeter," he observed quietly. "I can't help being sorry for him. The police have been worrying him, and--and at their suggestion we have been seeking among her things--among her correspondence--for some clue. But of course we found nothing. Pargeter is longing to go away--to England. How I wish he would go,--God! how I wish he would go! After all, as he says himself, he can do no good by staying here. He would receive any news within an hour." Madame de Lera leant forward. "Ah! but if Mr. Pargeter leaves Paris before--before something is discovered, his conduct would be regarded as very cruel--very heartless." "Did you know," said Vanderlyn, in a low voice, "that Peggy once before disappeared for three days? Pargeter keeps harking back to that. He thinks that she found out something which made her leave him again." "Yes," said Madame de Lera, "I knew of that episode in their early married life--but on that occasion, Mr. Vanderlyn, our poor friend cannot be said to have disappeared--she only returned to her own family." "Why, having once escaped, did she ever go back to him?" asked Vanderlyn, sombrely. "You forget," said Madame de Lera, gently, "that even then there was her son." Her son? Nay, Vanderlyn at no moment ever forgot Peggy's child. To himself, he seemed to be the only human being who ever thought of the poor little boy lying ill in far-away England. "Well, you need not be afraid," he said quickly, "that Pargeter will go away to-day. He intends to stay in Paris at least till to-morrow night, for he is convinced, it seems, that the fortune-teller, Madame d'Elphis,--the woman who by some incredible stroke of luck stumbled on the right name of that horse of his which won the Oaks,--will be able to tell him what has happened to--to Margaret Pargeter."