irs, and Latour entered his room.

Midnight! Was she yet asleep? Sabatier had told her nothing except that
she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to
her and explain everything. She would think it was Lucien Bruslart. Who
would be so likely to run such risk for her sake? Only one other man
might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help
her--Richard Barrington. Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night?
No. Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.

Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room
above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite
trouble. She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had
he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from
the Lion d'Or as he had intended. Bruslart could not have suspected him
then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in
secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless. To-night
Latour would say little. He would look upon her for a moment, be assured
that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of
those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks. This
would be enough for to-night.

The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Latour knocked
before turning it.

"Mademoiselle."

"Come in."

The answer was faint. She was in the inner room. Even when told to
enter, Latour hesitated. This was a crisis in his life, fully understood
and appreciated. Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored
for; it was natural to hesitate. Then he turned the key and went in.

The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner
room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there,
a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a
young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.

A sharp exclamation came from Latour's lips as he leaned forward to
look at her.

"Monsieur, I--" and then a flush of anger came into her face. "Am I
still to be insulted?"

"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"

Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and
his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.

"What right--"

"Who are you? Answer."

For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free
herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled t