were now coursing down her pale cheeks.

Both of us knew the worst. Our journey had been in vain.

That thought caused me to grit my teeth against De Gex and his unholy
hirelings. I would follow and unmask them. I would avenge the innocent
girl whom I loved so dearly, even though it should cost me my life!

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

YET ANOTHER MYSTERY

The first week in August was unusually hot and dry in London.

Gabrielle and Mrs. Tennison had remained in Lyons, for Professor
Gourbeil had suggested that his patient should, as a desperate
resource, remain under his treatment for a few weeks. He gave
practically no hope of her recovery. The dose of orosin that had been
administered was, he declared, a larger one than that which De Gex had
introduced into my drink on that night of horrors.

The effect upon me had been to muddle my brain so that I had accepted
those Bank of England notes as bribe to assist the mystery-man of
Europe in his foul and mysterious plot.

My companion Harry Hambledon was still earning his guineas at
Hammersmith Police Court, gradually establishing a reputation. He had
bought a small two-seater car, and each Sunday he took Norah out for
runs to the Hut at Wisley, to the Burford Bridge Hotel, where the
genial Mr. Hunt--one of the last remaining Bohemians of the days of
the Junior Garrick Club--welcomed them; to the Wooton Hatch, or up to
those more pretentious and less comfortable hostelries on Hindhead.

Motoring had roused a new interest in my friend. I loved the open
road, but with the heavy expenses I had recently sustained I could not
afford it. Besides, my firm had just secured a big electric lighting
contract with the corporation of Chichester, and I was constantly
travelling between that city and London, sometimes by rail and
sometimes in Mr. Francis's car.

I suppose I must have carried on my work satisfactorily after the
generous leave the firm--one of those stately old-fashioned ones which
have still survived the war--had accorded me. But my thoughts were
ever of my beloved Gabrielle, the beautiful girl whom, though her mind
was so strongly unbalanced, I yet loved with all the strength of my
being.

Every few days we exchanged letters. Sometimes Mrs. Tennison wrote to
me from the quiet little pension in the Rue Paul Bert, in Lyons, but
her letters were always despairing. Poor Gabrielle was just the same.
She still had no other vista in life than her immediate one