"If you please," she interrupted.

He turned towards the door.

"I have something belonging to Miss--to my guest," he said, "in my own
room. If you will excuse me for a moment I will fetch it."

He returned with the sealed envelope which she had given him, and which
he placed in her hands. He carried also a fur coat and an armful of
wraps.

"You must take these," he declared. "It is cold travelling."

"But how can I return them to you?" she protested. "No, not the coat,
please. I will take a rug if you like."

"You will take both," he said firmly. "There need be no trouble about
returning them. I shall be in Paris myself shortly, and no doubt we
shall come across one another."

Her eyes flashed something at him. What it was he could not rightly
tell. It seemed to him that he saw pleasure there, and fear, but more of
the latter. The Marquis intervened.

"I trust," he said, "that in that case you will give us the pleasure of
seeing something of you. We live in the Avenue de St. Cloud."

"You are very kind," Duncombe said. "I shall not fail to come and see
you."

Spencer threw open the door, and they passed out. Phyllis kept by
Duncombe's side. He felt her hand steal into his.

"I want you to keep this envelope for me," she whispered. "It contains
nothing which could bring you into trouble, or which concerns any one
else. It is just something which I should like to feel was in safe
keeping."

He thrust it into his pocket.

"I will take care of it," he promised. "And--you won't forget me? We
shall meet again--sooner perhaps than you expect."

She shook her head.

"I hope to Heaven that we shall not! At least, not yet," she murmured
fervently.

From the carriage window she put out her hand.

"You have been very kind to me," she said. "Good-bye!"

"An impossible word," he answered, with well-affected gayety. "A
pleasant journey to you."

Then the carriage rolled away, and Spencer and he were left alone.
Duncombe secured the front door, and they walked slowly back to the
library.

"You know Paris well," Duncombe said. "Have you ever heard of these
people?"

Spencer smiled.

"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed. "De St. Ethol is one of the first nobles
in France. I have seen him at the races many times."

"Not the sort of people to lend themselves to anything shady?"

"The last in the world," Spencer answered. "She was the Comtesse de
Laugnan, and between them they are connected with half a dozen