'Strange,' he said to himself; 'how exactly it has all come about as I could have wished. The meeting with Lydyeard at Torquay with the information of where this man was to be found; the stumbling upon him at once in Paris, and the quasi-intimacy that has ensued; then his newly-developed mania for play, the very means which I had devised for the end which I will most assuredly bring about. He has won to-night, and is exulting in his triumph; but I have no more doubt as to the ultimate result than I have of the right and justice of the cause in which I am engaged. They used to call me a fatalist in Moscow years ago, and I suppose they were not far wrong. This I know--that I have the most perfect faith in my carrying through this project, the most perfect certainty that luck will favour me; simply because I happen for once to be doing the right thing--to be fighting the battle for a woman who is, as I believe, more sinned against than sinning, and who is unable to help herself. This is the first time since I succeeded that I have felt thankful to fate for giving me poor young Mark's inheritance, with power and position and money wherewith to fight this scoundrel, for without them there would be no doing any good. He has no idea how much I know of his pecuniary embarrassments, and how completely he has spoiled his chance of marrying the heiress, as he hoped, by his conduct of the last three months. I am afraid that his recklessness and his fondness for drink must be ascribed to his annoyance at these lost chances. Now if Messrs. Moss only intelligently carry out my instructions, and secure for me the mortgage which Richards holds on the Woodburn property, so that I can foreclose at once, I have my friend in a vice and can screw him up to my terms. I had better get to bed now, and secure all the rest I can, for I have some heavy nights' work before me.' That day week the Comte de Gerfuzet was busily engaged on his breakfast at the Café Anglais, and had arrived at the _tranche-de-melon_ stage, when the portly old Baron Höchstadt entering begged permission to seat himself at the table. This granted and his own breakfast ordered, the Baron, who was known among his acquaintance as a _gobemouche_ of the first order, assumed his interest-provoking expression, and began to talk. 'You were not at Mélanie's last night, _mon cher_?' quoth he, tucking a flowing napkin under his pendulous double chin. 'No. We dined at the Moulin Rouge, where it was horribly cold; and afterwards went to Bullier's, where it was hideously dull,' said the Count. 'It is getting too late in the season for open-air amusements. I should have enjoyed myself better at Mélanie's, I daresay. Was anything going on?' 'Anything! everything!' cried the Baron. 'You know that those two Englishmen, Milord Froschfeld and Sir Ofton, have been playing écarté there every night?'