Undoubtedly he would be the hero of the hour, if he could be found.  But where was he?  Everyone was asking the question.  None knew the answer.  Some said he was in England, awaiting the turn of events, abiding his opportunity; others that he was already in France, lying hidden in Paris, or even risking arrest at Valpre itself.  The police were uniformly reticent upon the subject, but it was generally believed that there would be small difficulty in finding him when the moment arrived.  Some went so far as to assert that he had actually been arrested, and was being kept a close prisoner by the authorities, who were plainly in fear of serious rioting.  Whatever the truth of the matter, the fact remained that the tide of public opinion had set very strongly in his favour, and was likely to wax to a tumultuous enthusiasm exceedingly difficult to cope with when the object thereof should present himself.

With all of this Trevor Mordaunt was well acquainted; but he, on his part, was firmly convinced that Bertrand would keep away until he himself had left France.  To come to Valpre now would be to court a meeting with him, and this, he was convinced, Bertrand would do his utmost to avoid.  The break between them had been quite final.  Moreover, he probably believed that Chris was at Valpre also, and he had apparently determined not to see her again.  But here an evil thought forced its way.  Might they not, quite possibly, be in communication with one another?  It had presented itself many times before, that thought, and he had sought to put it from him.  But to-night it would not be denied.  It conquered and possessed him.  Was it at all likely that the parting between them had been final?

Only that afternoon evidence had been given of the episode that had led to the duel on the Valpre sands more than four years before.  He had listened with a set face to the account of the insult and the subsequent challenge, and though no name had been mentioned, he had known and faced the fact that the woman in the case had been his wife.  Even then, Bertrand had regarded her as his peculiar charge, as under his exclusive protection.  And she—­had she not told him with burning unrestraint that she had always loved this man, would love him till she died?

With the gesture of one who relinquishes his hold upon something he has discovered to be valueless, Trevor Mordaunt turned in his tracks and began to walk back over the long stretch of sand.  He looked no longer in the direction of the Magic Cave, but rather quickened his steps as though he desired to leave it far behind.  But there was no escaping that all-mastering suspicion.  It went with him, closely locked with his own spirit, and he could not shake it off.

Back to his hotel he walked, with no glance at sea or shining sunset, and went straight to his own room.  There was a private sitting-room adjoining, which he was wont to share with some of his fellow-journalists.  They used it as a club writing-room when the proceedings of the court-martial were over for the day.  He had his notes in his pocket; his report was not yet written.  He remembered that he must catch the midnight mail, and decided that he would not stop to dress.  That day’s sitting had been longer than usual, and his walk along the shore had made him late.