o-night. I can tell you
why Lucille is bound to go."

"Now," Mr. Sabin said, "you are beginning to get interesting."

"Lucille must go--or run the risk of arrest for complicity in the murder
of Duson."

"Are you serious?" Mr. Sabin asked, with admirably assumed gravity.

"Is it a jesting matter?" she answered fiercely. "Lucille bought poison,
the same poison which it will be proved that Duson died of. She came
here, she was the last person to enter your room before Duson was found
dead. The police are even now searching for her. Escape is her only
chance."

"Dear me," Mr. Sabin said. "Then it is not only for Brott's sake that
she is running away."

"What does that matter? She is going, and she is going with him."

"And why," he asked, "do you come to give me warning? I have plenty of
time to interpose."

"You can try if you will. Lucille is in hiding. She will not see you if
you go to her. She is determined. Indeed, she has no choice. Lucille is
a brave woman in many ways, but you know that she fears death. She is in
a corner. She is forced to go."

"Again," he said, "I feel that I must ask you why do you give me
warning?"

She came and stood close to him.

"Perhaps," she said earnestly, "I am anxious to earn your gratitude.
Perhaps, too, I know that no interposition of yours would be of any
avail."

Mr. Sabin smiled.

"Still," he said, "I do not think that it is wise of you. I might appear
at the station and forcibly prevent Lucille's departure. After all, she
is my wife, you know."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I am not afraid," she said. "You will make inquiries when I have gone,
and you will find out that I have spoken the truth. If you keep Lucille
in England you will expose her to a terrible risk. It is not like you to
be selfish. You will yield to necessity."

"Will you tell me where Lucille is now?" he asked.

"For your own sake and hers, no," she answered. "You also are watched.
Besides, it is too late. She was with Brott half an hour after the Duke
turned us out of Dorset House. Don't you understand, Victor--won't you?
It is too late."

He sat down heavily in his easy-chair. His whole appearance was one of
absolute dejection.

"So I am to be left alone in my old age," he murmured. "You have your
revenge now at last. You have come to take it."

She sank on her knees by the side of his chair, and her arms fell upon
his shoulders.

"How can you think so cruelly of me, Victor," she m