Chester felt his mind suddenly fill with angry suspicion.  Was it possible that this Comte de Virieu, this man of whom that nice Madame Wachner had spoken with such scorn as a confirmed gambler, was “making up” to Sylvia?  It was a monstrous idea—­but Chester, being a solicitor, knew only too well that in the matter of marriage the most monstrous and disastrous things are not only always possible but sometimes probable.  Chester believed that all Frenchmen regard marriage as a matter of business.  To such a man as this Count, Mrs. Bailey’s fortune would be a godsend.

“Sylvia!” he exclaimed, in a low, stern voice.

He turned round and looked at her.  She was staring straight before her; the colour had faded from her cheek; she looked pale and tired.

“Sylvia!” he repeated.  “Listen to me, and—­and don’t be offended.”

She glanced quickly at the man sitting by her side.  His voice was charged with emotion, with anger.

“Don’t be angry with me,” he repeated.  “If my suspicion, my fear, is unfounded, I beg your pardon with all my heart.”

Sylvia got up and touched the driver on the shoulder.  “Please slow down,” she said in French, “we are going faster than I like.”

Then she sank back in her seat.  “Yes, Bill!  What is it you wish to ask me?  I couldn’t hear you properly.  We were going too fast.”

“Is it possible, is it conceivable, that you are thinking of marrying this Frenchman?”

“No,” said Sylvia, very quietly, “I am not thinking of marrying the Comte de Virieu.  But he is my friend.  I—­I like and respect him.  No, Bill, you need not fear that the Comte de Virieu will ever ask me to become his wife.”

“But if he did?” asked Chester, hoarsely.

“You have no right to ask me such a question,” she answered, passionately; and then, after a pause, she added, in a low voice:  “But if he did, I should say no, Bill.”

Her eyes were full of tears.  As for Chester, he felt a variety of conflicting emotions, of which perhaps the strongest was a determination that if he could not get her no one else should do so.  This—­this damned French gambler had touched Sylvia’s kind heart.  Surely she couldn’t care for a man she had only known a month, and such an affected, dandified fellow, too?

It was with relief that they both became aware a few moments later that they were on the outskirts of Lacville.

“Here is the Chalet des Muguets!” exclaimed Sylvia.  “Isn’t it a funny little place?”

The English lawyer stared at the bright pink building; with curiosity and amusement.  It was indeed a funny little place, this brick-built bungalow, so fantastically and, to his British eyes, so ridiculously decorated with blue china lozenges, on which were painted giant lilies of the valley.

But he had not long to look, for as the car drew up before the white gate Madame Wachner’s short, broad figure came hurrying down the path.