heard the soft, shuffling tread of the gendarmes closing in round the house.
"I pray you to come in," said Monsieur Wachner in English, and then, addressing Bill Chester,
"I am pleased to see you, sir, the more so that your friend, Mrs. Bailey, is indisposed. A moment ago, to our deep concern, she found herself quite faint—no doubt from the heat. I will conduct you, gentlemen, into the drawing-room; my wife and Mrs. Bailey will join us there in a minute," and only then did he move back sufficiently to allow the two men to cross the threshold.
Paul de Virieu opened his lips—but no sound came from them. The sudden sense of relief from what had been agonised suspense gripped him by the throat.
He brushed past Wachner, and made straight for the door behind which he felt sure of finding the woman whom some instinct told him he had saved from a terrible fate. …
He turned the handle of the dining-room door, and then stopped short, for he was amazed at the sight which met his eyes.
Sylvia was sitting at a round table; behind her was the buffet, still laden with the remains of a simple meal. Her face was hidden in her hands, and she was trembling—shaking as though she had the ague.
But what amazed Paul de Virieu was the sight of Sylvia's hostess. Madame Wachner was crawling about on her hands and knees on the floor, and she remained in the same odd position when the dining-room door opened.
At last she looked up, and seeing who stood there,
