I told the driver to go to the British Embassy as fast as he could.  There, I sent in my name, and the Ambassador received me at once.  I didn’t explain much, but came to the point immediately, and said that I wanted—­oh, but wanted and needed very much indeed—­to see Ivor Dundas.  Could he, would he help me to do that?

“Ought I to help you?” he asked.  “Would Mountstuart and Lady Mountstuart approve?”

“Yes,” I said firmly.  “They would approve.  You see, it is necessary.”

“Then, if it’s necessary—­and I believe you when you say that it is,” he answered, “I’ll do what I can.”

What he could do and did do, was to write a personal letter to the Chief of Police in Paris, asking as a favour that his friend, Miss Forrest, a young lady related through marriage to the British Foreign Secretary, should be allowed five minutes’ conversation with the Englishman accused of murder, Mr. Ivor Dundas.

I took the letter to the Chief of Police myself, to save time, and because I was so restless and excited that I must be doing something every instant—­something which I felt might bring me nearer to Ivor.

From the Chief of Police, who proved to be a most courteous person, I received an order to give to the governor of the gaol or prison where they had put Ivor.  This, he explained, would procure me the interview I wanted, but unfortunately, I must not hope to see my friend alone.  A warder who understood English would have to be present.

So far I had gone into the wild venture without once thinking what it would be to find myself suddenly face to face with Ivor in such terrible circumstances, or what he would think of me for coming in such a way now that we were no longer anything to each other—­not even friends.  But a kind of ague-terror crept over me while I sat waiting in an ugly little bare, stuffy reception room.  My head was going round and round, my heart was pounding so that I could not make up my mind what to say to Ivor when he came.

Then, suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door; and when it opened, there stood Ivor, between two Frenchmen in blue uniforms.  One of them walked into the room with him—­I suppose he must have been a warder—­but he stopped near the door, and in a second I had forgotten all about him.  He simply ceased to exist for me, when my eyes and Ivor’s had met.

I sprang up from my chair and began to talk as quickly as I could, stammering and confused, hardly knowing what I said, but anxious to make him understand in the beginning that I had not come to take back my words of yesterday.

“We’re all so dreadfully sorry, Mr. Dundas,” I said.  “I don’t know if Uncle Eric has been here yet—­but he is doing all he can, and Aunt Lilian is dreadfully upset.  We’re staying on in Paris on account of—­on account of this.  So you see you’ve got friends near you.  And I—­we’re such old friends, I couldn’t help trying as hard as I could for a sight of you to—­to cheer you up, and—­and to help you, if that’s possible.”