That afternoon Jean remained in her room in a fierce fever of anxiety, while Bracondale drove his car along the winding, shady road to Yvetot, and home by St. Valery-en-Caux, and the sea-road which commences at FÉcamp.

Did he suspect? she wondered.

She could not help feeling mortified that the child should have made that unfortunate remark. She felt also that her excuse was a lame one. Did he really believe her story?

From the steel safe in her daintily-furnished room, with its silken upholstery in old rose, she took the big, square, velvet-lined case, and, opening it, gazed upon the string of splendid pearls. She took them out tenderly and, standing before the long cheval-glass, put them round her neck—for the last time.

As she examined herself in the mirror she sighed, her face hard, pale, and full of anxiety and distress.

Would Bracondale notice the change in her?

She put away the pearls, and, replacing the case in the safe, locked it.

Bates, her rather sour-faced maid, entered at the moment. She was a thin, angular person, very neat and prim, an excellent hairdresser, and a model of what a first-class maid should be.

“Why, you don’t look well this afternoon, madam,” she said, glancing at her inquiringly.

“No, Bates. It’s the heat, I think. Will you bring me my smelling-salts?” she asked, as she sank into an arm-chair, a pretty figure in her pale-blue silk dressing-gown.

The maid brought the large, silver-topped bottle across from the dressing-table and handed it to her mistress, who, after sniffing it, dismissed her.

Then Jean sat for a full half-hour staring straight before her, looking down the long vista of her own tragic past.

At midnight that letter would be safe in her hand. She consoled herself with the thought that, by acceding to Ansell’s demand, as she had done, she would rid herself of him for ever.

Her honour would be preserved, and Bracondale would never know. For the sake of her child, how could she confess to him?

He joined her in the petit salon, where she gave him tea, and then, till dinner, he retired into the study to complete the despatches for which Martin was to call and take to Downing Street.

At dinner she wore a pretty gown of cream lace, the waist and skirt being trimmed with broad, pale-blue satin ribbon, fashioned into big, flat bows; a Paris gown of the latest mode, which suited her admirably. It was rather high in the neck, and all the jewellery she wore was a single brooch.

He also looked smart in his well-cut dinner jacket, with a light grey waistcoat and black tie; and as they sat opposite each other they chatted merrily. She had composed herself, and was now bearing herself very bravely.

It was, however, a relief to her when, just as they had finished dessert, Jenner entered, saying:

“Captain Martin is in the study, m’lord.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the great statesman, rising at once. Then, turning to Jean, he said: “You’ll excuse me, dearest, won’t you? I must get Martin off. I’ve finished. Have you?”

“Yes, dear,” was her reply. “You go. I’m just going to see Enid for a little while.”

“After I’ve got Martin off I shall go along to Polivin’s. I’m sorry to leave you this evening. But you won’t mind, dear, will you?”

“Not at all,” was her prompt reply. “I know it is a duty.”

“I shall certainly not be back till one or two o’clock. They are a very late lot—the men who go there,” he remarked.

“I shall go to bed, so don’t hurry, dear.”

“Good night, then,” he said, crossing to her and bending till he touched her lips with his. Then he went along to the study, where the King’s Messenger was waiting.

“Halloa, Martin!” exclaimed his lordship, cheerily. “You’re up to time—you always are. You’re a marvel of punctuality.”

“I have to be, constantly catching trains, as I am,” laughed the nonchalant traveller, as he unlocked his despatch-box and took the seven big sealed letters from the Foreign Secretary’s hand.

Then he scribbled a receipt for them, packed them in a little steel box, and carefully locked it with the tiny key upon his chain. That box often contained secrets which, if divulged, would set Europe aflame.

“Don’t forget my camera next time you come over,” Bracondale urged. “And tell Sir Henry that if Bartlett is back from Persia I would like him to run over and report to me.”

“I won’t forget,” was Martin’s reply; and then, with a word of farewell, he took up his precious despatch-box and left the room.

The evening was dark and oppressive, with black clouds threatening thunder. Those hours passed very slowly.

Jean tried to read, but was unable. Then she went to the big salon and, seating herself at the grand piano, played snatches of Grand Opera. But she was too anxious, too impatient for midnight to come and end all the suspense.

Miss Oliver joined her, as usual, about ten o’clock for half an hour’s chat. But the presence of the governess irritated her, and she was glad when she retired. She wondered whether Enid had told her anything. The child’s chatter had, indeed, been extremely unfortunate.

Eleven o’clock!

She sat in her boudoir trying to occupy her mind by writing a letter, but she could not. She had to go through the terrible ordeal of seeing that man again.

At one moment she felt impelled to confess all to Bracondale, yet at the next she thought of his honour, and of the child. No, at all hazards, at all costs, even if it cost her her life, she must preserve her secret.

For wealth or for position she cared nothing—only for Bracondale’s love.

The little clock struck the quarter. It wanted fifteen minutes to midnight.

With knit brows she rose quickly. The whole household had now retired; all was silence, and she was alone. Outside Ralph was no doubt watching for the light in the little salon.

She ascended the thickly-carpeted stairs noiselessly, and from the safe in her room took the square morocco box. Then, assuring herself that no servant could be watching, she carried it down to the little salon and, switching on the light, placed the box upon a small Louis Quinze table in the centre of the room.

It was a prettily-furnished apartment, with genuine old Louis Quinze furniture. In a corner was a large palm, and upon a side-table a great vase of fresh flowers. The gilt furniture shone beneath the bright light, and the whole had an effect of artistic brilliancy and daintiness.

She crossed to the drawn curtains of daffodil plush and, placing her hand within, undid the latch of the long window which led out upon the balcony and pushed it open slightly. Then, recrossing the room, she stood near the door, waiting.

There was still time before he was due to enter there and give her the letter in return for the pearls.

Of what use was it to wait there? So she switched off the light in case Bracondale should return and wonder, and passed into the adjoining room. What if Bracondale came back before the exchange were effected?

She stood holding her breath, listening in eager anxiety.

Suddenly the telephone-bell rang in the study, and in order that Jenner might not hear it and descend to answer it, she hurried to the instrument herself.

It was a call from the British Embassy in Paris. One of the secretaries spoke to her, asking whether his Excellency the Ambassador might speak to his lordship upon an important matter.

“Lord Bracondale is not in. I am Lady Bracondale,” she replied.

“When do you expect Lord Bracondale back?” the voice inquired.

“Soon after twelve. Will you ring up again? Tell Sir Charles that I will at once tell my husband when he returns,” she said, and then rang off.

Meanwhile a dark figure, which had stealthily crept along the road, entered the gate and stole noiselessly over the grass to the verandah.

The man had been watching the house for an hour past, and, as though with sudden resolution, he made up his mind to enter.

At first he seemed fearful of discovery. Indeed, for a full half-hour had he lurked motionless beneath a tree, waiting, and, though there was complete silence in that still, oppressive night, yet he appeared to hesitate.

All the rooms on the ground floor were in darkness save for the study, the curtains of which were only half-closed. Therefore, as he approached the house, he saw Lady Bracondale alone, speaking into the telephone.

Suddenly, with an agile movement, he scaled the verandah, and a few seconds later, without making a sound, he stood before the window against the entrance porch—the window of the little salon which Jean had indicated where the pearls would be. His movements betrayed that he was an expert at moving without making a sound.

Bending, the dark figure, still moving stealthily, crept up to the long window upon which there suddenly flashed a small zone of white light from an electric pocket-lamp, revealing the fact that, though the heavy curtain was drawn, the window was ajar.

For a few seconds the man listened. Then, having reassured himself that there was no one in the room, he slowly pushed back the curtain and peered into the darkness.

Suddenly he heard a footstep and, dropping the curtain instantly, stood in the darkness, quite motionless.

Somebody entered the room, switched on the light, crossed to the centre of the apartment, stood there for a few seconds, and then, receding, switched off the light again and closed the door.

The intruder stood in the room behind the curtain without moving a muscle.

He could hear sounds of footsteps within the house.

He had closed the long glass door when he had entered, and now stood concealed behind the yellow plush curtain.

Suddenly he heard the piano being played—a song from “La BohÊme.” He stood listening, for he was always fond of music. As he halted there the sweet perfume of the flowers greeted his nostrils, and he murmured some low words beneath his breath.

His hand sought his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it he had in his grasp a serviceable-looking revolver. He inhaled a long deep breath, for he was desperate.

At last he summoned courage, and again drew back the curtain very slowly. All was darkness within until he switched on his pocket-lamp and slowly examined the place.

The light fell upon the table whereon stood the jewel-case, and he walked straight to it and opened it.

The moment his eyes fell upon the magnificent string of pearls he stood for a second as though in hesitation.

Then swiftly he took them up, and with a glance at them thrust his prize into his jacket pocket.

It was the work of an instant.

He reclosed the lid. It snapped and startled him.

Next moment his light was switched off and he disappeared.

A second later, however, Jean turned the handle of the door, entered the room, and again switched on the light.

The place became flooded with electricity, and she stood a pale, erect figure, staring at the clock, which was just chiming the hour of midnight.