“And I am to believe you make this journey to help me regain them?”

“What do you think, then?”

“I do not know what to think, mademoiselle.  I am overwhelmed—­abashed and humbled by contemplation of such generosity.”

“You see, you do not know me, monsieur.  But you shall know me better before we are finished.”

“One does not question that.”  Nor did one!  “But if I am to sail for America to-day—­”

“To-morrow, from Cherbourg, at eight in the morning.”

“Well, to-morrow, then:  but how am I to get my passport vised?”

“I have seen to that.  If you will look over your papers, monsieur, you will see that you are no longer Paul Martin alias Andre Duchemin, but Paul Delorme, my invalid brother, still suffering from honourable wounds sustained in the Great War and ordered abroad for his health.”

To this Lanyard, hastily verifying her statement by running an eye through the passport, found nothing more appropriate than a wondering “Mon dieu!”

“So you see, everything is arranged.  What have you to say?”

“Only that mademoiselle sweeps one off one’s feet.”

“Do you complain about that?  You no longer doubt my devotion, my gratitude?”

“Do not believe me capable of such stupidity!”

“That is very well, then.  Now I must run.”  Liane Delorme threw away her cigarette and rose.  “I have a thousand things to do....  And, you understand, we leave as soon as you are dressed?”

“Perfectly.  By what train?”

“By no train.  Don’t you know there is a strike to-day?  What have you been reading in those newspapers?  It is necessary that we motor to Cherbourg.”

“That is no little journey, dear sister.”

“Three hundred and seventy kilometres?” Liane Delorme held this equivalent of two-hundred and thirty English miles in supreme contempt.  “We shall make it in eight hours.  We leave at four at latest, possibly earlier; at midnight we are in Cherbourg.  You shall see.”

“If I survive...”

“Have no fear.  My chauffeur drives superbly.”

She was at the door when Lanyard stayed her with “One moment, Liane!” With fingers resting lightly on the knob she turned.

“Speak English,” he requested briefly.  “What about Dupont?”

Simple mention of the man was enough to make the woman wince and lose colour.  Before she replied Lanyard saw the tip of her tongue furtively moisten her lips.

“Well, and what of him?”

“Do you imagine he has had enough?”

“Who knows?  I for one shall feel safe from him only when I knew he is in the Sante or his grave.”

“Suppose he tries to follow us to Cherbourg or to stop us on the way...”

“How should he know?”

“Tell me who left the doors open for him last night, and I will answer that question.”  The woman looked more than ever frightened, but shook her head.  “You didn’t fail to question the servants this morning, yet learned nothing?”