arsh letter many times. Then, out of
brooding chaos, leaped one fiery question--where was Marigny?

The gate which Cynthia's father had shut and bolted in his face did
not frighten him. He had leaped a wall of brass and triple steel when
he won Cynthia Vanrenen's love in the guise of an humble chauffeur, so
it was unbelievable that the barrier interposed by a father's
misguided wrath should prove unsurmountable.

But Marigny! He wanted to feel his fingers clutching that slender
throat, to see that pink and white face empurple and grow black under
their strain, and it was all-important that the scoundrel should be
brought to book before the Vanrenens returned to London. He gave a
passing thought to Mrs. Leland, it was true. If she shared with
Vanrenen the silly little secret of his identity, it was beyond
comprehension that she should let her friend hold the view that he
(Medenham) was merely an enterprising blackguard.

Still, these considerations were light as thistle-down compared with
the need of finding Marigny. He and Dale began to hunt London for the
Frenchman. But they had to deal with a wary bird, who would not break
covert till it suited his own convenience. And then, the sublime cheek
of the man! On the Friday morning, when Medenham rose with a fixed
resolve to obtain the services of a private detective, he received
this note:

DEAR VISCOUNT MEDENHAM--I have a notion, as our mutual
acquaintance Mr. Vanrenen would say (Do you know him? Now
that I consider the matter, I think not), that you are
anxious to meet me. We have things to discuss, have we not?
Well, then I await you at the above address.

Yours to command,
EDOUARD MARIGNY.

CHAPTER XIV

--AND GOOD JUDGMENT YIELDS TO FOLLY

At any other moment the tone of confidence underlying the effrontery
of this letter would certainly have revealed its presence to a brain
more than ordinarily acute. But in the storm and stress of his rage
against gods and men, Medenham did not wait to ponder subtleties of
expression. No matter what the hidden reason that inspired Marigny's
pen, it was enough for Medenham to know that at last that arch-plotter
and very perfect rascal was within his reach. He breakfasted in a fury
of haste, crammed on a hat, and rushed away, meaning to drive in a cab
to the hotel in Northumberland Avenue from which Marigny wrote.

Such was his agitated state that