in his receiving word from me.  What I send can never go straight to him, as you may guess.  Godensky would guess that, too:  and he would have perhaps informed the police, very cautiously, very unofficially and confidentially, that he suspected Maxine de Renzie of being a political spy in the pay of England.  He would have advised that my movements be watched for the next few days:  that English agents of the French police be warned to watch also, on their side of the Channel.  He would have argued to himself that if I’d sent any document away, with Raoul’s connivance or without, I would be wanting it back as soon as possible; and he would have mentioned to the police that possibly a messenger would bring me something—­if my correspondence through the post was found to contain nothing compromising.  Oh, there have been eyes on me, and on every movement of mine, I’m sure.  See how efficient, though quiet, the methods have been where you’re concerned.  They—­the police—­knew the name of the man I was to meet here at this hotel; and if, as Godensky must have hoped, any document belonging to the French Government had been found on you or me, everything would have played into his hands.  Raoul would have been ruined, his heart broken, and I—­but there are no words to express what I would have suffered, what I may yet have to suffer.  Godensky would be praised for his cleverness, as well as securing a satisfactory revenge on me for refusing him.  The only thing which rejoices me now is the thought of his blank disappointment when he gets the news from the Commissary of Police.”

“You don’t believe then,” I asked, “that Godensky has had any hand in the disappearance of the treaty?”

“I would believe it, if it weren’t for the necklace being put in its place.  Even if Count Godensky could have known of Raoul’s mission with the diamonds, and got them into his own hands, he wouldn’t have let them get out again with every chance of their going back to Raoul, and thus saving him from his trouble.  He’d do nothing to help, but everything to hinder.  There lies the mystery—­in the return of the necklace instead of the treaty.  You have no knowledge of it, you tell me; yet you come to me with it in your pocket—­the necklace stolen from Raoul du Laurier, days ago, in Amsterdam or on the way there.”

“You’re certain it’s the same?”

“Certain as that you are you, and I am I. And I’m not out of my mind yet—­though I soon shall be, unless you somehow save me from this horror.”

“I’m going to try,” I said.  “Don’t give up hope.  I wish, though, that you hadn’t to act to-night.”

“So do I. But there’s no way out of it.  And I must go now to the theatre, or I shall be late:  my make-up’s a heavy one, and takes a long time.  I can’t afford to have any talk about me and my affairs to-night, whatever comes afterwards.  Raoul will be in a box, and at the end of the first act, he’ll be at the door of my dressing-room.  The agony of seeing him, of hearing him praise my acting, and saying dear, trusting, loving words that would make me almost too happy, if I hadn’t betrayed him, ruined his career for ever!”