When I read what had happened—­how he was accused of murder, and while declaring his innocence had been silent as to all those events which might have proved it, my heart went out to him in a wave of gratitude.  Here was a man!  A man loyal and brave and chivalrous as all men ought to be, but few are!  He had sacrificed himself to the death, no doubt, to keep my name out of the mud into which my business had thrown him, and to save me from appearing in Raoul’s eyes the liar that I was.  Had Ivor told that he was with me, after I had prevaricated (if I had not actually lied) to Raoul about the midnight visitor to my house, what would Raoul think of me?

Ivor was trying to save me, if he could; and he had been trying to save me when he went to the room of that dead man, though how and when he had decided to go I knew not.  If it were not for me, he would be free and happy to-day.

My conscience cried out that the one thing to do was to go at once to the Chief of Police and say:  “Monsieur, this English gentleman they have arrested cannot have committed a murder in the Rue de la Fille Sauvage, between twelve and one last night, for he came to my house, far away in the Rue d’Hollande, at a quarter past twelve, and didn’t leave it till after one o’clock.”

I even sprang up from my chair in the very room where I had hidden Ivor, to ring for Marianne and tell her to bring me a hat and coat, to bid her order my electric brougham immediately.  But—­I sat down again, sick and despairing, deliberately crushing the generous impulse.  I couldn’t obey it.  I dared not.  By and by, perhaps.  If Ivor should be in real pressing danger, then certainly.  But not now.

At four o’clock Raoul came, and was with me for an hour.  Each of us tried to cheer the other.  I did all I could to make him hope that even yet he would have news of the brocade bag and its contents.  He, thinking me ill and tired out, did all he could to persuade me that he was not miserable with anxiety.  At least, he was no longer jealous of Godensky or of any man, and was humbly repentant for his suspicions of me the night before.  When Raoul is repentant, and wishes to atone for something that he has done, he is enchanting.  There was never a man like him.

At five I sent him away, with the excuse that I must rest, as I hadn’t slept much the night before; but really it was because I feared lest I should disgrace myself before him by breaking down, and giving him a fright—­or perhaps even by being mad enough to confess the thing I had done.  I felt that I was no longer mistress of myself—­that I might be capable of any folly.

I could not eat, but I drank a little beef-tea before starting for the theatre, where I went earlier than usual.  It would be something to be busy; and in my part I might even forget for a moment, now and then.