Swift as the cab was, Westerham only caught the boat-train by a minute, and at that without a ticket.

He had then two hours for calm reflection, and to some extent self-reproach. Never in his life before had he been so unnerved, and the expressions of irritation which he had made at the Buckingham Palace Hotel before Dunton did not seem to him good.

He saw that his was not a fit state of mind to be in if he intended to steer safely through the troubled waters ahead of him.

Some things were growing clearer to his mind. More and more he was coming to realise the clever, if circuitous, means by which Melun was seeking to break down Lady Kathleen's resistance and render his own task harder.

But this new move disturbed him more than any which had yet been made. He could find no reason for the scene of the conflict being suddenly transferred from England to France, unless, indeed, Melun had at last come to the conclusion that Westerham was too dangerous a man to play with.

Soon he saw, however, that speculation was utterly useless. All his efforts must be concentrated upon his finding Lady Kathleen, and if necessary compelling her by sheer force to capitulate and take him into her confidence.

He set his heart upon this so strongly that he persuaded himself that there were no difficulties in his way. It would be strange indeed if, when the moment came, he would not be able to induce Lady Kathleen to reveal those things which up to then she had so obstinately and persistently hid.

The night was calm, and the passage to Dieppe a smooth one, but on the quay Westerham received a sharp demonstration that the difficulties which he had mentally brushed aside nevertheless remained to be grappled with in actual fact.

To begin with, he had no luggage. He did not even possess an overcoat, and as it had come on to rain, and for the sake of greater freedom of thought he had remained on deck, his appearance was already travel-worn and bedraggled.

Small wonder, therefore, that as he presented the ticket with which he had been provided at Newhaven the officials of the douane regarded him with keen suspicion.

“Monsieur has nothing to declare?” they asked.

He could only shrug his shoulders and say:

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

To avoid further questionings he added: “I have not even an overcoat.”

They looked him up and down, and his appearance inspired a certain amount of respect. None the less, they took counsel together, and with an ever-watchful eye Westerham saw them approach a portly person of an intensely British aspect.

Presently this individual came up to him and asked in most unmistakably English terms what Westerham's destination might be.

Westerham told the man shortly that his destination was Rouen.

“You must excuse me, sir,” said the man, whom Westerham guessed to be a Scotland Yard representative at the port of Dieppe, “but it is rather unusual for gentlemen to travel without luggage and without even so much as an overcoat. It is even more curious,” he added, “when they start on a journey without first taking a ticket.”

Westerham surveyed the man coolly with a faintly insolent air. He was coming to realise that whereas in ordinary times the consciousness of his own good faith enabled him to pass every barrier with the superiority born of an easy conscience, it required some brazenness to face obstructions of this sort when he had a desire for secrecy.

And the fat man was evidently shrewd. He might take life easily on the quay, and watch with thoughtful and even drowsy eyes the coming and going of innumerable English voyagers, but for all that his alertness only slept, and though he had an instinctive trust of Westerham's face and manner, still he could not deny that appearances were against the Englishman who travelled so unprovided for a journey and with such evident haste.

“Of course,” he said apologetically, “you will excuse my being persistent in making inquiries, for, after all, that is only my duty.”

“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a genial smile, “and how can I help you to do it?”

With some pomposity of manner the English detective produced a fat note-book.

“I'm afraid,” he said, “that I must ask you to give me your name.”

Westerham smiled a little to himself to think how futile was such a precaution on the man's part. He was at liberty to give him what name he chose; he could give him the first name that came into his head.

“I think,” he laughed, “that for safety's sake you had better call me Charles Grey, though how on earth you are to ascertain whether that is my real name or not I confess I cannot see.”

The fat detective sucked in his lips and wrote the name laboriously in his book.

“After all,” he said, with some asperity, “people who give wrong names and addresses seldom come to any good.”

“I suppose not,” said Westerham, and walked a little moodily towards the train. He paid the guard handsomely enough to warrant the man's not forgetting to call him at Rouen. But still Westerham felt that he had so much at stake that he could leave nothing to chance, and so he sat upright, wakeful and watchful, while the train rushed through the apple trees of Normandy to the old cathedral city.

When he arrived there it was raining hard, and he was conscious that he was again an object of suspicion as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in search of a fiacre.

No vehicle was in sight, and Westerham set himself to tramp up the hill to the HÔtel de la Cloche, at which he had stayed long years before, and of which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and its quaintness.

The hotel slept, and Westerham heard the bell pealing through the silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.

Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp morning air.

The sight of Westerham's tall figure drew his immediate attention.

“What does Monsieur require?” he asked in accents which were at once civil and surprised.

“Let me in,” said Westerham, “and I will do my best to explain.”

The man switched on the electric light, and Westerham, treading warily on the polished parquet floor, made his way to a seat. He was feeling fatigued and not a little miserable.

First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from his pocket and slipping them into the man's hand.

“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” he said. “I am not a fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost his friends and who is in search of them.

“Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a very tall young English lady with dark hair and dark eyes? It is possible that she is travelling incognito, but if she has given her right name it will be the Lady Kathleen Carfax.”

The man scratched his head and looked worried.

“I would help Monsieur if I could,” he said, “but I can only assure him that there is no English lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the season is very bad, and we have few English visitors.”

That Lady Kathleen was not at the HÔtel de la Cloche did not disconcert Westerham very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly likely to stay in the most prominent hotel in the town. He had merely called there because he knew that if one wishes to make one's path smooth in a foreign city it is just as well first to win the confidence of some hotel porter.

“It is many years,” he said to the man, “since I stayed here. In fact, I have practically no recollection of Rouen except of this hotel and the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could furnish me with a complete list of all the hotels where English people are likely to be found.”

“Why now,” said the man, “that is an exceedingly simple affair.” And he rattled off a list of hotels.

Westerham repeated them after him, but found he could not remember so many. Therefore he wrote them down.

“And you think,” he asked, “that this is a complete list?”

“Quite complete, I should say,” said the man, “for Monsieur's purpose.”

With a weary air Westerham rose from the cane-backed chair on which he was seated.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said to the porter, “but I must go in search of this lady at once.”

The man spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture. “It is still very dark,” he said, “and Monsieur will find the hotels closed. Moreover, I do not wish to be rude to Monsieur, all the night porters may not be so accommodating as myself.

“Permit me to help Monsieur,” he went on. “Monsieur will pardon me, but possibly this may be some romance.”

He shrugged his shoulders again, but with such an air of civility and respect that Westerham could not quarrel with him.

“At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a little while I make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur against the damp air.”

Laughing a little, Westerham sat down again, and suffered the man to bustle about. The fellow was deft indeed, and soon Westerham was glad that he had listened to his counsel.

The dawn came up, and the porter turned the lights out, and Westerham sat in the twilight of the early morning smoking more or less contentedly cigarettes of the Caporal brand.

Shortly after six the man, who had been busy cleaning boots, returned and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming into the room.

“If Monsieur is in haste,” he said, “I will not seek to detain him. By this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur's mission is urgent he should continue his search.”

His air was so friendly and so charming that Westerham resorted to the only expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave the man another five shillings, and pledged him to silence. None the less, he had little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. The Frenchman must talk.

Thereafter Westerham went out into the fresh morning air and began his search. In turn he visited the HÔtel de la Poste, the Grand, the Europe, and the rest of them.

It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious and still sleepy porters, but by the time he had worked through the list of hotels with which the man at the HÔtel de la Cloche had provided him he had come to the conclusion that Lady Kathleen was of a certainty not in one of these hostelries.

Was she still in Rouen? The doubt troubled Westerham greatly, but he reflected that she might have elected to put up at a more humble hotel than any of those at which he had called. So with the assistance of a fairly friendly policeman he secured a second and much longer list of minor inns.

The search, too, was successful. In a small and narrow street he discovered a small hotel which went by the name of the RÉpublique. Here his question put to the plump Madame who opened the door at once kindled interest.

“Yes, there was most decidedly an English lady staying there—a young English lady of most distinguished appearance. She had arrived about noon on the day before, and said she intended to stay there for a couple of days, as she expected friends.”

“Had the friends arrived?”

“No, not as yet. Perhaps Monsieur was the friend for whom she waited?”

Westerham doubted that, and found the situation a trifle awkward to explain.

“No,” he said to the fat Madame, he was not the friend whom Mademoiselle had come to meet. He was, however, an acquaintance, and would call later in the day.

Contenting himself with this, he lifted his hat and strolled down the street, followed by the shrewd eyes of the landlady.

He walked on until he felt sure he was no longer observed; then he walked back again.

On the opposite side of the street to the RÉpublique, a few doors up, he discovered a cafÉ of humble aspect, provided with tables beneath an awning at which the thirsty could sit and refresh themselves.

At one of these tables Westerham took a chair, and at the risk of violent indigestion called for more coffee. He sat and sipped the sweet and chicory-flavoured liquid and turned about in his mind the best means of discovering the reason of Lady Kathleen's visit to Rouen.

He debated with himself whether it would not be better to go boldly over to the hotel and make his presence known; but he reflected that such a course might be unwise, more especially as Kathleen might still elect to remain silent on the mystery which still so much perplexed him. Indeed, his presence might result in her abandoning the business which had called her so suddenly from London.

As time went on he glanced up and down the street, watching everyone's approach with interest. Westerham half expected to see the face of Melun. Instead, however, towards half-past eight his attention was aroused by the appearance of a man whose aspect was out of keeping with the little street.

The stranger was above middle height, and bore himself with a certain air of quiet dignity. He was dressed in black, his clothes being well cut, though of obviously foreign tailoring.

It was the man's face, however, which riveted Westerham's attention. It was very dark, and the nose was somewhat flat. Yet it was a face of great refinement and a distinction accentuated in a strange way by a long, black, and well-trimmed beard.

The man was not a Frenchman, nor, Westerham decided, was he a German; certainly he was not an Italian nor an Austrian. A subtle something about the man's whole appearance, indeed, brought Westerham to the conclusion that he was a Russian.

Yet why he fixed his nationality this way he could not tell, and then that intuition which was Westerham's great aid in times of trouble told him that this dignified and daintily-walking stranger was in some manner connected with Lady Kathleen's presence at the HÔtel de la RÉpublique.

So certain of this did he become that he took the precaution of drawing further back into the cafÉ, where he could sit in the shadows and watch the passage of the stranger without arousing any interest himself.

Twice the black-bearded man walked up the street, glancing sharply at the RÉpublique, and twice he walked back with the same meditative and dilatory air. Then he turned the corner and disappeared.

The patron of the inn busied himself about the cafÉ, and, seemingly curious about the visitor's long sojourn, Westerham ordered a further supply of the chicory-like coffee.

As the morning wore on so the sunshine became stronger, till the cobbles in the little streets shone hard and bright in the glare.

At ten Westerham's glance was attracted by some bustle about the door of the inn, and he saw the fat landlady bowing and scraping on the white doorstep, and then out of the shadows into the sunshine came the girl he had come to find.

Dressed all in black and thickly veiled, Lady Kathleen came quickly out of the doorway and walked down the street.

Westerham, who had taken the precaution to previously settle his score, immediately rose and walked after her.

The street was so narrow and there were so many people about that he had to follow Kathleen pretty closely in order to avoid losing her. He noted with some surprise that she walked straight ahead, as though of prearranged purpose, never faltering and never so much as glancing to the right or to the left.

He followed her down the hill, and so into the space about the cathedral, where busy women were setting out their wares—poultry, pottery, vegetables and the like.

More than one head was turned to note the quick, silent passage of Lady Kathleen. Hers, indeed, was a physique which could not have escaped notice, no matter what its surroundings.

On the market-square, having a clearer view before him, Westerham slackened his pace and allowed Lady Kathleen to increase the distance between them.

Still she walked straight ahead, as one who follows an oft-trodden path and knows full well whither that path leads.

She moved up the cathedral steps, and as she did so Westerham saw approaching the sombre figure of the black-bearded man whose presence in the little street by the HÔtel de la RÉpublique had aroused his interest earlier in the morning.

But though their steps were evidently leading them to the same spot, neither the black-bearded man nor Lady Kathleen made the least sign. The girl passed into the cathedral, the man following closely on her heels.

In fear of losing sight of them Westerham almost ran across the square and darted up the cathedral steps. But for all his speed his feet fell silently, so that neither the girl nor the man, who now walked by her side, heard his quick pursuit.

Once in the cathedral, Westerham paused to accustom his eyes to the dimness of the light.

Far up the nave he could see the man and the girl walking side by side.

Then they turned from the nave into the north aisle and made their way thence into one of the dark recesses of a side chapel.

As he watched them vanish into the shadows Westerham paused.

He felt that he was spying, and the task was an uncongenial one, but he comforted himself with the reflection that, after all, he played the spy out of a desire to serve Lady Kathleen, and he walked on.

He saw that it would be impossible for him to approach the side chapel by the same way as Lady Kathleen had if he wished to remain unobserved. So he turned aside and drew near to the chapel by another way, sheltering himself behind the pillars, which cast black shadows on the floor.

Westerham was following his old stalking habit, which he had acquired when in pursuit of big game among the giant pines of the Rockies. Yet with all his care he almost blundered into his quarry. For, as he moved silently round a pillar, he became conscious that he was so near to Lady Kathleen that he could have stretched out his hand and touched her.

In an instant he drew back and stood still behind a massive column. He could see nothing, but he could hear the voices of the girl and her companion in low and earnest conversation.

At first it was the man who did most of the talking, and from what scraps of his words he could catch Westerham judged him to be speaking in French. He droned on for some minutes, and then his voice died away.

Lady Kathleen now asked several questions in quiet, low tones. The man answered sharply and incisively, and it seemed to Westerham that there was command in his voice.

For a while there was a complete silence, which at last was broken by long, choking sobs. Edging a little nearer round the pillar, Westerham saw Kathleen kneeling upon a prie-dieu as though in an abandonment of grief. She was crying as though her heart would break, her face buried in her hands.

The sombre man stood by like some tall shadow, silent and unmoving.

A quick and great desire to go to Kathleen's aid, to gather her into his arms and comfort her, took possession of Westerham. But great as his desire was, he forced it down, recognising that the moment had not come for him to intervene.

Presently the sombre man moved closer to Lady Kathleen's side, and, putting out a gloved hand, touched her lightly, and with the air of one offering silent sympathy, on the shoulder.

Westerham heard him murmuring what must have been words of comfort, and before long Kathleen lifted her face and resolutely wiped away her tears. Then she rose and went forward to the altar, on the steps of which she knelt and prayed.

Finally she came back to the black-bearded man and held out her hand, and Westerham saw with still growing wonder that the man bent over it as though with great respect and brushed Kathleen's fingers with his lips. Without any further word Kathleen walked quickly and quietly away, making for the door through which she had entered the cathedral. The man, with a little sigh, picked up his hat and followed her, Westerham hard upon his heels.

Outside in the sunshine, Westerham watched Kathleen make across the square by the way which she had come. Her companion turned abruptly to the right and walked rapidly away.

Westerham followed Kathleen back till she came to the HÔtel de la RÉpublique, when she disappeared through the doorway.

Once again Westerham took his seat at a table underneath the awning of the cafÉ that he might watch developments.

And if on the night before he had been completely unable to understand the reasons which had taken Lady Kathleen to Rouen, he was infinitely more out of his mental depths now. This sombrely-attired, black-bearded man could not possibly be any tool of Melun's. Melun did not employ gentlemen, and that this man was one Westerham did not doubt. For two hours he sat and watched the doorway and the street; but no one either came or went whom Westerham could even distantly connect with Lady Kathleen.

All the while he sat there he suffered great agony of mind. It was torture to him to think that not a score of yards away Kathleen sat alone and in great distress, and that he was powerless to comfort her.

Yet was he powerless? He could at least make one more attempt to help her. With this resolve he crossed the road and asked to see the English lady staying there.

He sent up no name, deeming it wiser not to do so. He recognised that Kathleen was of that type of woman who, if danger threatens, must know the worst at once. She would be curious to discover the identity of the stranger who sought an audience with her, and would ask him to go up.

In this opinion he was justified, for the fat landlady came down and said that the English mademoiselle would be pleased to see him. He went quietly up the stairs, and without so much as knocking at the door walked into the little sitting-room which Kathleen had engaged.

As she beheld him she started back with a quick cry of terror. “Even here!” she exclaimed. “Must you follow me even here?”

Westerham bowed his head. Now that he found himself in her presence explanation became difficult. For a few minutes he could say nothing but stood watching Kathleen, who had sunk down into a chair as if utterly worn out in body and in spirit.

Westerham gathered himself together and came to the conclusion that the time had now come when he at any rate should no longer continue to make mysteries.

“Lady Kathleen,” he said, “I owe you a deep apology for following you here. I learnt of your visit to Rouen quite by accident from my friend, Lord Dunton.”

“Your friend, Lord Dunton!” exclaimed Kathleen with wide-open eyes. “Your friend, Lord Dunton! What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Westerham, simply, “that Lord Dunton is my friend. You know me as James Robinson, a man who, in order to secure acquaintance with yourself, had to indulge in the very questionable privilege of a friendship with Melun.

“It was, believe me, quite by accident I discovered that Melun in some way held your father in his grasp. I was sorry for Lord Penshurst, but infinitely more sorry for you. I offered you my help, but you refused it. It was, perhaps, impertinent on my part, and I cannot blame you for doubting the genuineness of my offer. I was not then in a position to explain either my motives or my identity.

“‘James Robinson’ is not my name. I am, as a matter of fact, the Sir Paul Westerham who was reported to have disappeared from the Gigantic.”

Lady Kathleen was staring at him in greater astonishment than before.

“It was my whim—possibly a foolish whim—to vanish as I did. I cannot possibly regret it, because I think it has really placed me in a position to help you out of your difficulties. I want you to treat me with that confidence which, I assure you, I really deserve. I stand in no fear of Melun, nor, indeed, of any man. Melun is simply in my pay. I bought his services for my own ends, and I can equally buy his services for yours.”

He paused and watched Lady Kathleen closely. She appeared utterly unstrung, and clasped her head tightly with both hands.

“I can hardly understand what it all means,” she said at last in a dull voice.

“It simply means this,” urged Westerham, quietly, “that I am an honest man and a gentleman; and if you could only tell me what it is of which you and your father are so much afraid, I feel perfectly certain that with the hold I have over Melun I could free you from your trouble.”

Kathleen searched his face with her eyes eagerly and yet fearfully.

“You must forgive me,” she said, “but I have no reason to believe any man. I am sorry, but it is impossible for me to believe you even now.”

She paused and then cried out again: “No, no! it is quite impossible! Besides, surely if you have been with Melun so much, and seen so much, you must know what this dreadful thing is all about.”

“I give you my word,” said Westerham, “that I do not know.”

Again Kathleen answered: “I am sorry, but I cannot believe you.”

Suddenly her face was flooded with colour. “You followed me here,” she cried, “and saw the man who spoke to me, and yet you still tell me that you do not know! Do not know that while I can save my father I am lost!

“Don't you know,” she cried again hysterically, “that in the cathedral I received my sentence of death? For it means death to me! I cannot face dishonour!”

Wild and uncontrolled as the girl's words were, there was a convincing ring of truth in them, and Westerham for the first time in his life knew what fear meant.

“But who,” he asked with dry lips, “who in this world could possibly have the power to order you such a fate?”

“You know!” cried Kathleen, fiercely, her eyes starting from their sockets in terror, “you must know that it is by order of the Czar!”