“But if I write upon it the nature of my business, and enclose it in an envelope, will you then take it to him?” I suggested.

He hesitated for a short time, twisting his mustache, and then replied with great reluctance: 

“Well, if you are so determined, you may write your business upon your card.”

I therefore took out one, and on the back wrote in French the words which I knew must have the effect of obtaining an audience for me: 

    “To give information regarding Miss Elma Heath.”

This I enclosed in the envelope he handed to me, when, ringing a bell, he handed it to the footman who appeared, with orders to take it to his Excellency and await a reply.  The response came in a few minutes.

“His Excellency will give audience to the English m’sieur.”

Then I rose and followed the footman through several wide corridors filled with palms and flowers, which formed a kind of winter-garden, until we crossed a red-carpeted ante-room, where two statuesque sentries stood on guard, and the man conducting me rapped at the great polished mahogany doors of the room beyond.

A voice responded, the door was opened, and I found myself in a high, beautifully-painted room, with long windows hung with pastel-blue silk with heavy gilt fringe, a pastel-blue carpet, and upon the opposite wall a great canopy of rich purple velvet bearing the double-headed eagle embroidered in gold.  The apartment was splendidly decorated, and in the center of the parquet floor, with his back to the light, was the thin, wiry figure of an elderly man in a funereal frock-coat, in the lapel of which showed the red and yellow ribbon of the Order of Saint Anne.  His hands were behind his back, and he stood purposely in such a position that when I entered I could not at first see his face against the strong, gray light behind.

But when the footman had bowed and retired and we were alone, he turned slightly, and I then saw that his bony face, with high cheek-bones, slight gray side-whiskers, hard mouth and black eyes set closely together, was one that bore the mark of evil upon it—­the keen, sinister countenance of one who could act without any compunction and without regret.  Truly one would not be surprised at any cruel, dastardly action of a man with such a face—­the face of an oppressor.

“Well?” he snapped in French in a high-pitched voice.  “You want to see me concerning that mad English girl?  What picturesque lies do you intend to tell me concerning her?”

“I have no intention of telling any untruths concerning her,” was my quick response, as I faced him unflinchingly.  “She has told me sufficient to—­”

“She has told you something!  Ah!  I guessed as much.  I expected this!” And I saw that his thin, crafty face went pale, while his eyes glanced evilly upon me.  He believed that she had revealed to me her secret.  He placed his hand upon the back of a chair wherein was concealed an electric button, and next instant a little stout man in shabby black appeared as though by magic through a secret door hidden in the dark paneling of the audience chamber—­the man who was his personal guard against the plots for his assassination.