Marcel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He had a presentiment that the woman in question was the one who was engaging his own attention so strongly. He could not hear Agostini’s reply, and the other continued— “If she is no more than a compatriot of yours, I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.” Agostini laughed, but made no promise. And Marcel said to himself: “His compatriot? An Italian? It is Anetta, I am sure of it. What is she doing here with this villain? The army once more in danger, for she has made the acquaintance of Colonel Derbaut, a staff-officer.” Meanwhile, he had lost the thread of the conversation, but a second sentence told him all that was necessary— “Very good! To-night, at the opera?” “Agreed!” Silence was restored. The members of the club continued their correspondence. Marcel rose from his seat, sure that he was about to meet the pretended sister of Agostini. She was not in Italy, as the adventurer had had the audacity to tell him at the charity sale. She was in Paris and, without thinking of the past, engaged on some fresh intrigue. Along whatever path she travelled she sowed corruption, infamy, and death. Suddenly in Marcel’s memory arose the smiling, tender image of Madame Vignola with that bewitching smile, and those clear, limpid eyes. Was it possible that such a creature should be a monster? If so, then one greatly to be dreaded! How can one help trusting in that exquisite gentleness which pervaded her whole person? And yet, had she not betrayed him? Had she not revealed the presence of the secret documents in the laboratory? And that, too, with marvellous rapidity, and a skill scarcely compatible with honesty. He would have liked to free her from every suspicion which hung over her; but was it possible? Leaving the club, he returned to the bank, and, entering his father’s study, found his uncle Graff, attentively reading an evening paper. The old man arose on seeing his nephew enter, and, holding the printed sheet out to him, said— “See here, Marcel, here is an article on this affair of ours. It is a report of a meeting of the Academy of Science, where Professor Marigot read his notice on the Trémont powder.” Marcel carelessly took the journal. Without even glancing at it, he laid it on the desk. “Is that all the interest you take in the matter?” exclaimed the uncle. “You are not inquisitive about the effect produced by Marigot’s official communication? Very well, I will tell you what he says. The _Globe_ has given up a whole column to the discovery, which it states is an important one, and it predicts, within a short date, a revolution in the use of motive power. On the other hand, the _Panache Blanc_, Lichtenbach’s journal, is dead against the invention, which it qualifies as a shamefaced imitation, insinuating that it is simply the Dalgetty process, without the slightest change in the doses of the products.” “What a brazen falsehood!” Marcel exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.