"I know," I said. "Why he does not act more judiciously I cannot think. At home, at Lydford, he is surely unsuspected, and in security." "I am always telling him so, but, alas! he will not listen." "You said that he is now under the influence of that woman." "I fear so," was her low reply, as she sighed despairingly. We rose and strolled out together to the car which was waiting to take us for a run over the hills and among the mountains by the Pont de la Caille to Geneva, seventy kilometres distant. The afternoon was glorious, and as we sat side by side we chatted and laughed merrily, both of us forgetting all our apprehensions and our cares. Ah, yes! those days were truly idyllic days, for I loved her devotedly, and each hour I passed in her society the bond became stronger and more firmly forged. But could she reciprocate my affection? Ay, that was the great and crucial question I had asked myself--yea, a thousand times. I dared not yet reveal to her the secret of my heart, for even still she thought and spoke of that honest, upright fellow whose untimely end was so enshrouded in mystery. We dined at Geneva, in the huge _salle a manger_ of the Beau Rivage, which overlooked the beautiful lake, tranquil and golden in the sunset, with Mont Blanc, towering and snow-capped, showing opposite against the clear evening sky. We strolled for half an hour on the terrace, where the English tourists were taking their coffee after dinner, and then, in the fading twilight, Harris drove us back again to Aix, where we arrived about ten o'clock, after a day long to be remembered. Asta held my hand for a moment in the hall, raising her splendid eyes to mine, and then wishing me good-night, mounted in the lift to her room. Afterwards I went along to the _fumoir_ to find Shaw, but could not discover him. Later, however, the hall-porter said he had complained of feeling unwell, and had gone to his room. I threw myself into a cane chair in the hall, and lit a cigar, for it was yet early. I suppose I must have remained there perhaps half an hour, when a waiter brought me a note. Tearing it open, I found in it a scribbled message, in pencil, from Asta. "There is danger, as I suspected," she wrote. "Be careful. Do not approach us, and know nothing. Destroy this.--Asta." I crushed the letter in my pocket and dismissed the servant. What could it mean? Not more than a quarter of an hour later, as I still sat smoking and pondering, a tall, dark-bearded, pale-faced, rather elegant-looking Frenchman, wearing the crimson button of the Legion d'Honneur in his coat, entered the hall from the street, and glancing round quickly, advanced to the bureau. A moment later he came towards me and, halting, bowed and exclaimed in good English-- "Pardon, m'sieur, but I have the honour to speak with Monsieur Kemball. Is that not so?" "That is my name," I replied.