It was without ceremony that she walked in on him at length, having kept him waiting so long that he had begun to wonder if she meant to try on anything as crude as abandoning him, and posting off to Cherbourg without a word to seek fancied immunity in New York, while he remained in an empty house without money, papers of identification, or even fit clothing for the street; for, on coming out of his bath, Lanyard had found all of these things missing, the valet de chambre presumably having made off with his evening clothes, to have them pressed and repaired.

Liane was dressed for travelling, becomingly if with a sobriety that went oddly with her cultivated beaute du diable, and wore besides a habit of preoccupation which, one was left to assume, excused the informality of her unannounced entrance.

“Well, my dear friend!” she said gravely, halting by the bedside.

“It’s about time,” Lanyard retorted.

“I was afraid you might be growing impatient,” she confessed.  “I have had so much to do...”

“No doubt.  But if you had neglected me much longer I should have come to look for you regardless of consequences.”

“How is that?” she enquired with knitted brows—­“regardless of what consequences?”

“Any damage one might do to the morale of your menage by toddling about in the voluptuous deshabille in which you behold me—­my sole present apology for a wardrobe.”

She found only the shadow of a smile for such frivolity.  “I have sent for clothing for you,” she said absently.  “It should be here any minute now.  We only wait for that.”

“You mean you have sent to the Chatham for my things?”

“But certainly not, monsieur!” Liane Delorme lied without perceptible effort.  “That would have been too injudicious.  It appears you were not mistaken in thinking you were recognized as Andre Duchemin last night.  Agents of the Prefecture have been all day watching at the Chatham, awaiting your return.”

“How sad for them!” In as much as he had every reason to believe this to be outright falsehood, Lanyard didn’t feel called upon to seem downcast.  “But if my clothing there is unavailable, I hardly see...”

“But naturally I have commissioned a person of good judgement to outfit you from the shops.  Your dress clothes—­which seemed to suit you very well last night—­gave us your measurements.  The rest is simplicity; my orders were to get you everything you could possibly require.”

“It’s awfully sporting of you,” Lanyard insisted.  “Although it makes one feel—­you know—­not quite respectable.  However, if you will be so gracious as to suggest that your valet de chambre return my pocketbook and passports...”

“I have them here.”  The woman turned over the missing articles.  “But,” she demanded with an interest which was undissembled if tardy in finding expression, “how are you feeling to-day?”

“Oh, quite fit, thank you.”