“We ought to know where he’s been, Goslin,” declared the elder man.  “What fool was it who, keeping him under surveillance, allowed him to slip from Paris?”

“The Russian Tchernine.”

“I thought him a clever fellow, but it seems that he’s a bungler after all.”

“But while we keep Krail at arm’s length, as we are doing, what have we to fear?” asked Goslin.

“Yes, but how long can we keep him at arm’s length?” queried Sir Henry.  “You know the kind of man—­one of the most extraordinarily inventive in Europe.  No secret is safe from him.  Do you know, Goslin,” he added, in a changed voice, “I live nowadays somehow in constant apprehension.”

“You’ve never possessed the same self-confidence since you found Mademoiselle Gabrielle with the safe open,” he remarked.

“No.  Murie, or some other man she knows, must have induced her to do that, and take copies of those documents.  Fortunately, I suspected an attempt, and baited the trap accordingly.”

“What caused you to suspect?”

“Because more than once both Murie and the girl seemed to be seized by an unusual desire to pry into my business.”

“You don’t think that our friend Flockart had anything to do with the affair?” the Frenchman suggested.

“No, no.  Not in the least.  I know Flockart too well,” declared the old man.  “Once I looked upon him as my enemy, but I have now come to the conclusion that he is a friend—­a very good friend.”

The Frenchman pulled a rather wry face, and remained silent.

“I know,” Sir Henry went on, “I know quite well that his constant association with my wife has caused a good deal of gossip; but I have dismissed it all with the contempt that such attempted scandal deserves.  It has been put about by a pack of women who are jealous of my wife’s good looks and her chic in dress.”

“Are not Flockart and mademoiselle also good friends?” inquired Goslin.

“No.  I happen to know that they are not, and that very fact in itself shows me that Gabrielle, in trying to get at the secret of my business, was not aided by Flockart, for it was he who exposed her.”

“Yes,” remarked the Frenchman, “so you’ve told me before.  Have you heard from mademoiselle lately?”

“Only twice since she has left here,” was the old man’s bitter reply, “and that was twice too frequently.  I’ve done with her, Goslin—­done with her entirely.  Never in all my life did I receive such a crushing blow as when I found that she, in whom I reposed the utmost confidence, had played her own father false, and might have ruined him!”

“Yes,” remarked the other sympathetically, “it was a great blow to you, I know.  But will you not forgive mademoiselle?”

“Forgive her!” he cried fiercely, “forgive her!  Never!”

The grey-bearded Frenchman, who had always been a great favourite with Gabrielle, sighed slightly, and gave his shoulders a shrug of regret.