Making sure that no one saw us, we crossed the grass and stopped under the window. The house was an old one. There were buttresses against the wall, and the one nearest the Countess’s window was in a dilapidated condition. A vine ran all over this side of the building. I was always active and I had not dissipated in Paris long enough to have lost my nerve. I glanced upward. It would not be difficult. If the vine held—and its stem was as thick as my wrist—the ascent would be easy. Wrapping my cloak around me so as to protect du Trémigon’s clothes, and with a word of caution to Bucknall, whom I saw secreted comfortably in the black recess between the buttress and the wall, I quickly made my way up. So long as I had the assistance of the buttress it was nearly as easy as walking up a stair, or as simple as climbing the battens on the side of a ship. The last yard was more difficult, but I managed it with a few scratches and with a minimum of noise. I had no opportunity to peer into the room or see what was before me. I reached the sill, threw my leg over it and stepped quietly within. I stood by the window listening. Neither from outside nor inside was there any sound. I had been unobserved. Satisfying myself on this point, I stepped back from the window to avoid the line of light and looked about me. The room appeared to be a woman’s sitting-room. There was an air of refinement, of grace and culture about it that made me sure. There were books on the table, pictures on the walls, a piece of some sort of needlework thrown carelessly on a chair. Several doors opened from the room. According to the plan, that on the right should be the Countess’s boudoir, and beyond that her bedchamber. I stepped softly across to this door. I listened. There was no one in the other room apparently. I turned the handle carefully and entered. Just beyond me was the door of the bedroom. Repeating my performance, I walked over to it and listened. No one was there. I opened the door and looked in. Like the others this room was lighted by a single candle. Like the others, it was unoccupied. It was quite evident that du Trémigon’s informant was correct. The Countess was out. Her maid, who should have been on guard, had taken advantage of her mistress’s absence to go off on a little jaunt of her own, I supposed. I closed the door of the bedroom softly and began a hasty examination of the boudoir. A dress lay across a chair. A magnificent costume, it seemed to me. A pair of shoes—a ravishing pair of tiny shoes—stood on the floor at the bottom of the gown. These might do. But no, they had not been worn; they were entirely new. Du Trémigon had insisted upon something personal and familiar. I walked over to the dressing-table, which was covered with a mass of silver and porcelain. They bore the de Villars crest, but so did a number of things in du Trémigon’s own home. None of them would answer.