hough it
was, all Valpre apparently was awake and abroad.

They staggered on again at a snail's pace, hearing voices all about
them, now and then catching glimpses of faces in the light of the
carriage-lamps.

"Feels like a funeral procession!" observed Noel jocularly.

"Shut up!" said Mordaunt curtly.

Chris squeezed his hand very hard and said nothing.

Slowly, slowly they drew near to the hotel. A glare of lights shone upon
them. The whole place was a buzz of excitement.

They turned into the courtyard, passing two soldiers on guard at the
gate. No one spoke to them, or attempted to delay their progress. They
stopped before the swing-doors.

An obsequious official came forward to greet them as they descended, and
Mordaunt entered into conversation with him. Two soldiers were on guard
here also, standing like images on each side of the entrance. Noel
studied them with frank interest. Chris stood and waited as one in a
dream.

At last her husband turned to her. He introduced the obsequious one, who
bowed very low and declared himself enchanted. And then she found herself
moving through the vestibule, where a great many men of all nationalities
looked at her curiously and a great babble of voices hummed like some
immense machinery.

She turned to the man beside her with a touch of nervousness, and at once
his hand closed upon her arm.

"Bertrand is still living," he said.

She looked up at him imploringly. "Can't we go to him?"

"Yes, we are going now. He is upstairs. They wanted to take him to the
fortress, but he is too ill to be moved."

They went on together. He led her into a lift, and they passed out of
reach of the staring crowd.

A familiar figure was awaiting them above, and greeted Chris
deferentially as she stepped into the corridor.

"Why, Holmes!" she said, and held out her hand to him.

He took it with reverence. For the first time in her memory she detected
a hint of emotion on his impassive face.

"He--hasn't gone, Holmes?" she whispered breathlessly.

"No, madam. He is waiting for you," Holmes made answer, very gently.

Waiting for her! She smiled piteously in her relief. Bertrand de
Montville would be her perfect knight to the last.

As they went on down the long corridor she missed the grasp of her
husband's fingers, and stopped like a child to slip her hand back into
his.

He looked down at her gravely, saying nothing. And so they came at last
to the door of Bertrand's roo