“You must not let him do that,” returned the Frenchman, shaking his head.  “Our reputations are at stake.”

When I reached my own apartments the concierge was much relieved to see me.  She had been told that I was dead, perhaps murdered, and Leglosse’s visit to find me had not helped to reassure her.  A packet of letters and telegrams was handed to me, which I carried up to my room, to read them while I was changing my attire.  Never before had I been so glad to get out of a dress-suit.

I had just finished my toilet and was in the act of commencing the packing of the bag I intended taking with me, when there was a tap at the door.  I opened it, to find the concierge there.

“There is a lady in the parlor to see Monsieur,” she said.  “She has a maid with her.”

“A lady to see me?” I asked incredulously.  “Who on earth can she be?”

The concierge shook her head.  In my own mind I had arrived at the conclusion that it was Mademoiselle Beaumarais, and that Hayle had sent her to discover, if possible, whether I had escaped from my confinement or not.  On finding out that I had she would telegraph to him, and once more he would be placed on his guard.  At first I felt almost inclined not to see her, but on second thoughts I saw the folly of this proceeding.  I accordingly entered the room where the lady was awaiting me.  The light was not very good, but it was sufficient for me to see two figures standing by the window.

“To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit, mademoiselles?” I began.

“Don’t you know me, Mr. Fairfax?” the taller of them answered.  “You forget your friends very quickly.”

“Miss Kitwater?” I cried, “what does this mean?”

“It is a long story,” she answered, “but I feel sure that you will have time to hear it now.  I am in terrible trouble.”

“I am indeed sorry to hear that,” I answered, and then glanced at her maid as if to inquire whether it was safe to speak before her.  She interpreted the look correctly and nodded her head.

“Yes, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, “you can say what you please before Nelly.”

“Then am I right in interpreting your trouble as being connected with your uncle?” I asked.

“Yes, that is it,” she answered.  “You have guessed correctly.  Do you know that he and Mr. Codd have disappeared?”

“Disappeared?” I repeated.  “Have you any idea where they have disappeared to?”

“No, but I can hazard a very shrewd guess,” she replied.  “I believe they have crossed to Paris in search of Mr. Hayle.  Since last Sunday my uncle had been more depressed than ever, while the paroxysms of rage to which he is so subject, have been even more frequent than ever.  If the truth must be told, I fear his troubles have turned his brain, for he talks to himself in such a queer way, and asks every few minutes if I have received news from you, that I cannot help thinking his mind is not what it