"You were willing to betray your mistress?"

"Deschamps swore it would do no real harm. Do I not tell you that

Deschamps and I always liked each other? We were old friends. I

sympathized with her; she is growing old."

"How much did she promise to pay you?"

"Not a sou--not a centime. I swear it." The girl stamped her foot and

threw up her head, reddening with the earnestness of her disclaimer.

"What I did, I did from love; and I thought it would not harm

mademoiselle, really."

"Nevertheless you might have killed your mistress."

"Alas!"

"Answer me this: Now that your attempt has failed, what will Deschamps

do? Will she stop, or will she try something else?"

Yvette shook her head slowly.

"I do not know. She is dangerous. Sometimes she is like a mad woman.

You must take care. For myself, I will never see her again."

"You give your word on that?"

"I have said it. There is nothing more to tell you. So, adieu. Say to

mademoiselle that I have repented."

She opened the door, and as she did so her eye seemed by chance to

catch a small picture which hung by the side of the hearth. My back

was to the fireplace, and I did not trouble to follow her glance.

"Ah," she murmured reflectively, "he was the most fine stern man ...

and he gave me hundred-franc notes."

Then she was gone. We never saw nor heard of Yvette again.

Out of curiosity, I turned to look at the picture which must have

caught her eye. It was a little photograph, framed in black, and hung

by itself on the wall; in the ordinary way one would scarcely have

noticed it. I went close up to it. My heart gave a jump, and I seemed

to perspire. The photograph was a portrait of the man who, since my

acquaintance with Rosa, had haunted my footsteps--the mysterious and

implacable person whom I had seen first opposite the Devonshire

Mansion, then in the cathedral at Bruges during my vigil by the corpse

of Alresca, then in the train which was wrecked, and finally in the

Channel steamer which came near to sinking. Across the lower part of

it ran the signature, in large, stiff characters, "Clarenceux."

So Lord Clarenceux was not dead, though everyone thought him so. Here

was a mystery more disturbing than anything which had gone before.




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