“And the letter, monsieur—­the damning letter?”

Cleek smiled one of his strange, inscrutable smiles.

“Ask me that to-morrow, Count,” he said.  “You shall hear something, you and madame, that will surprise you both,” then twisted round on his heel and walked hurriedly away.

And all that day and all that night he danced attendance upon madame, and sang to her, and handed her bedroom candle to her as he had done the night before, and gave back jest for jest and returned her merry badinage in kind.

Nor did he change in that when the fateful to-morrow came.  From morning to night he was at her side, at her beck and call, doing nothing that was different from the doings of yesterday, save that at evening he locked the mongrel dog up in his room instead of carrying him about.  And the dog, feeling its loneliness, or, possibly, famishing—­for he had given it not a morsel of food since he found it—­howled and howled until the din became unbearable.

“Monsieur, I wish you would silence that beast or else feed it,” said madame pettishly.  “The howling of the wretched thing gets on my nerves.  Give it some food for pity’s sake.”

“Not I,” said Cleek.  “Do you remember what I said, madame?  I am getting it hungry enough to eat one—­or perhaps all—­of Clopin’s wretched little parakeets.”

“You think they have to do with the hiding of the paper or the pearl, cher ami?  Eh?”

“I am sure of it.  He would not carry the beastly little things about for nothing.”

“Ah, you are clever—­you are very, very clever, monsieur,” she made answer, with a laugh.  “But he must begin his bird-eating quickly, that nuisance-dog, or it will be too late.  See, it is already half-past nine; I retire to my bed in another hour and a half, as always, and then your last hope he is gone—­z-zic! like that; for it will be the end of the second day, monsieur, and your promise not yet kept.  Pestilence, monsieur,” with a little outburst of temper, “do stop the little beast his howl.  It is unbearable!  I would you to sing to me like last night, but the noise of the dog is maddening.”

“Oh, if it annoys you like that, madame,” said Cleek, “I’ll take him round to the stable and tie him up there, so we may have the song undisturbed.  Your men will not want to search me of course, when I am merely popping out and popping in again like that, I am sure?”

Nevertheless they did, for although they had heard and did not stir when he left the room and ran up for the dog, when he came down with it under his arm and made to leave the house, he was pounced upon, dragged into an adjoining apartment by half a dozen burly fellows, stripped to the buff, and searched, as the workers in a diamond mine are searched, before they suffered him to leave the house.  There was neither a sign of a pearl nor a scrap of a letter to be found upon him—­they made sure of that before they let him go.