But it was no dream. I myself had seen the Thing with my own eyes, while my own cheek only a few hours before had borne witness to its actual existence. I saw how horrified she was at its reappearance, and what a terrible impression it had produced upon her already overwrought nerves. I knew that she would not again retire that night--and indeed, feeling that some unknown evil was present, I slipped on my clothes and spent the remainder of the night in an armchair, reading a French novel. Dawn came at last, and as soon as the sun rose I descended, and went out for a long, invigorating walk beside the Rhone. On my return I met Asta strolling alone under the trees in the Place near the hotel, and referred to the weird incident of the night. "Ah, Mr Kemball, please do not recall it!" she implored. "It is too horrible! I--I can't make out what it can be--except that it is a sign to us of impending evil." "A sign to us both," I said. "But whom are we to fear?" "Perhaps that woman." "Is she still in Lyons, I wonder?" "Probably. About seven o'clock this morning Dad sent an express message to somebody. He called a waiter, and I heard him give the letter, with instructions that it was to be sent at once." I said nothing, but half an hour later, by the judicious application of half a louis to the floor waiter, I ascertained that the note had been sent to a Madame Trelawnay, at the Hotel du Globe, in the Place Bellecour. Trelawnay was, I recollected, one of the names used by the pseudo Lady Lettice Lancaster. Therefore, after my _cafe au lait_ I excused myself, stepped over to the hotel, and there ascertained that Madame, who had been there for two days, had received the note, packed hurriedly, and an hour later had left the Perrache Station by the Paris express. On returning I told Asta this, and at eleven o'clock we were again on the white dusty highway--that beautiful road through deep valleys and over blue mountains, the Route d'Italie, which runs from Lyons, through quiet old Chambery, to Modane and the Alpine frontier. In Chambery, however, we turned to the left, and ere long found ourselves in that scrupulously clean and picturesque summer resort of the wealthy, Aix-les-Bains. Shaw, who was in the best of spirits, had laughed heartily over Asta's adventure with the rat, and as we arrived at our destination he turned to me, expressing a hope that we all three would enjoy "a real good time." I had been in Aix several years before, and knew the life--the bains, the casino, the Villa des Fleurs, the fetes and the boating on the Lac du Bourget, that never-ending round of gaiety amid which the wealthy idler may pass the days of warm sunshine.