Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said— “To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to you.” * * * * * Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards the Place de l’Etoile. When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared. Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor. Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young man in her arms, whispered in his ear— “Wretched man that you are! How did you come here?” At the same time, and without appearing to be able to help herself, her lips sought Marcel’s neck, and she kissed him with a delirious rapture. “Then it was not you who summoned me?” “I! _Grand Dieu_! I would give ten years of my life if you were anywhere but in this house at this moment. Ah! the wretches! They have deceived me!” “Who are the wretches you speak of?” asked Marcel, firmly. “Ah! Do not question me! I cannot, must not, speak!” “Are you jesting?” said Marcel, ironically. “Poor child! You do not know them!” “Madame, is your brother among them?” She laid her hands on his mouth, those beautiful white hands, and he remained silent. Then, clasping him to her breast with passionate ardour, her eyes filled with tears—she stammered out— “Oh! Marcel, Marcel!” A sudden pallor came over her; she clung to him to prevent herself from falling, and her shapely head, with its wealth of raven hair, lay on the shoulder of the one she loved with hopeless passion. A sharp knock on the door brought them back to the reality of life. “Listen!” said Sophia. She drew near the door, asked a short question in a foreign language, and received an immediate reply. Apparently reassured, she opened the door, saying to Marcel— “It is Milo.” Milona entered, and the door was carefully closed again. “Have they sent you?” asked Sophia. “Yes, mistress.” “What do they want?” “To come to an understanding with you.” “I shall not go.” “They have provided for that contingency.”