en Chester, frightened and angry as he now was, could
not help noticing how the other man's face had changed in the last few
moments. From being of a usual healthy sunburn, it had turned so white as
to look almost green under the bright electric light.

"Yes, I think I know what it means," said Count Paul between his teeth.
"A letter like this purported to come from Madame Wolsky when she
disappeared. But do not let us make a scene here. Let us go at once where
I believe she is, for if what I fear is true every moment is of value."

He plucked the Englishman by the sleeve, and hurried him out into the
grateful darkness.

"Get into the carriage," he said, imperiously. "I will see to
everything."

Chester heard him direct the driver to the police-station. "We may need
two or three gendarmes," muttered Count Paul. "It's worth the three
minutes delay."

The carriage drew up before a shabby little house across which was
painted in large black letters the word "Gendarmerie."

The Count rushed into the guard-room, hurriedly explained his errand to
the superintendent, and came out, but a moment later, with three men.

"We must make room for these good fellows somehow," he said briefly, and
room was made. Chester noticed with surprise that each man was armed, not
only with a stave, but with a revolver. The French police do not stand on
ceremony even with potential criminals.

"And now," said the Count to the coachman, "five louis, my friend, if you
can get us to the Chalet des Muguets in seven minutes--"

They began driving at a breakneck pace, the driver whipping up his horse,
lashing it in a way that horrified Chester. The light little carriage
rocked from side to side.

"If the man doesn't drive more carefully," cried out the Englishman, "we
shall be spilt--and that won't do us any good, will it?"

The Count called out, "If there's an accident you get nothing, my friend!
Drive as quickly as you like, but drive carefully."

They swept on through the town, and so along the dimly-lighted shady
avenues with which even Chester had become so familiar during the last
few days.

Paul de Virieu sat with clenched hands, staring in front of him. Remorse
filled his soul--remorse and anguish. If Sylvia had been done to death,
as he now had very little doubt Anna Wolsky had been done to death, then
he would die too. What was the vice which had meant all to him for so
many years compared to his love for Sylvia?

The gendarm