“You are satisfied that one or all of its members committed the theft last night?”

“Not less than two, probably; say Phinuit, at a venture, and his alleged brother, Jules, the chauffeur, both Americans, adventurous, intelligent and resourceful.  Yes; I believe that.”

“And your plan of campaign is based on this conclusion?”

“That’s a big name”—­Lanyard’s smile was diffident, a plea for suspended judgment on his lack of inventiveness—­“for a lame idea.  I believe our only course is to let them believe they have been successful in every way, and so lull them into carelessness with a false sense of security.”

A wrinkle appeared between the woman’s eyebrows.  “How do you propose to accomplish that?” she asked in a voice that betrayed ready antagonism to what her intuition foresaw.

“Very simply.  They hoped to shift suspicion on to my shoulders.  Well, let them believe they have done so.”

The waiting hostility developed in a sharp negative:  “Ah, no!”

“But yes,” Lanyard insisted.  “It’s so simple.  Nobody here knows as yet that your jewels have been stolen, only you and I. Very well:  you will not discover your loss and announce it till to-morrow morning.  By that time Andre Duchemin will have disappeared mysteriously.  The room to which he will retire to-night will be found vacant in the morning, his bed unslept in.  Obviously the scoundrel would not fly the chateau between two suns without a motive.  Inform the police of the fact and let them draw their own conclusions:  before evening all France will know that Andre Duchemin is suspected of stealing the Montalais jewels, and is a fugitive from justice.”

“No, monsieur,” the woman iterated decidedly.

“You will observe,” he continued, lightly persuasive, “it is Andre Duchemin who will be accused, madame, not Michael Lanyard, never the Lone Wolf!  The heart of man is in truth a dark forest, and vanity the only light to guide us through its mazes.  I confess I am jealous of my reputation as a reformed character.  But Andre Duchemin is merely a name, a nom de guerre; you may saddle him with all the crimes in the calendar if you like, and welcome.  For when I say he will disappear to-night, I mean it quite literally:  Andre Duchemin will nevermore be heard of in this world.”

She had a smile quivering on her lips, yet shook her head.

“Monsieur forgets I learned to know him under the name of Duchemin.”

“Ah, madame! do not make me think too kindly of the poor fellow; for whether we like it or not, he is doomed.  And if madame, in her charity, means to continue to know me, it must be Michael Lanyard whom she suffers to claim a little portion of her friendship.”

Her smile grew wistful, with a tenderness he had the grace not to recognise.  Abashed, incredulous, he turned aside his gaze.  Then without warning he found her hand at rest in his.  “More than a little, monsieur, more than a little friendship only!”