Nevertheless, at three a.m. this particular door opened noiselessly from Cecil’s side, and Cecil entered the domain of the Count. The moon shone, and Cecil could plainly see not only the silhouette of the Belfry across the Place, but also the principal objects within the room. He noticed the table in the middle, the large easy-chair turned towards the hearth, the old-fashioned sofa; but not a single article did he perceive which might have been the personal property of the Count. He cautiously passed across the room through the moonlight to the door of the Count’s bedroom, which apparently, to his immense surprise, was not only shut, but locked, and the key in the lock on the sitting-room side. Silently unlocking it, he entered the bedroom and disappeared.... In less than five minutes he crept back into the Count’s sitting-room, closed the door and locked it. “Odd!” he murmured reflectively; but he seemed quite happy. There was a sudden movement in the region of the hearth, and a form rose from the armchair. Cecil rushed to the switch and turned on the electric light. Eve Fincastle stood before him. They faced each other. “What are you doing here at this time, Miss Fincastle?” he asked, sternly. “You can talk freely; the Count will not waken.” “I may ask you the same question,” Eve replied, with cold bitterness. “Excuse me. You may not. You are a woman. This is the Count’s room----” “You are in error,” she interrupted him. “It is not the Count’s room. It is mine. Last night I told the Count I had some important writing to do, and I asked him as a favour to relinquish this room to me for twenty-four hours. He very kindly consented. He removed his belongings, handed me the key of that door, and the transfer was made in the hotel books. And now,” she added, “may I inquire, Mr. Thorold, what you are doing in my room?” “I--I thought it was the Count’s,” Cecil faltered, decidedly at a loss for a moment. “In offering my humblest apologies, permit me to say that I admire you, Miss Fincastle.” “I wish I could return the compliment,” Eve exclaimed, and she repeated with almost plaintive sincerity: “I do wish I could.” Cecil raised his arms and let them fall to his side. “You meant to catch me,” he said. “You suspected something, then? The ‘important writing’ was an invention.” And he added, with a faint smile: “You really ought not to have fallen asleep. Suppose I had not wakened you?”