“Scarcely,” Walter admitted.  “We have yet to discover to whom the secret of the existence of that chamber is known.  No doubt the Whispers are heard above through the crack in the roof.  Therefore, at present, we had better keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves.”

And to this the girl, of course, agreed.

They found Sir Henry seated alone in the sunshine in one of the big bay-windows of the drawing-room, a pathetic figure, with his blank, bespectacled countenance turned towards the light, and his fingers busily knitting to employ the time which, alas! hung so heavily upon his hands.

Truth to tell, with Flockart’s influence upon him, he was not quite convinced of the sincerity of either Gabrielle or Walter Murie.  Therefore, when they entered, and his daughter spoke to him; his greeting was not altogether cordial.

“Why, dear dad, how is it you’re sitting here all alone?  I would have gone for a walk with you had I known.”

“I’m expecting Goslin,” was the old man’s snappy reply.  “He left Paris yesterday, and should certainly have been here by this time.  I can’t make out why he hasn’t sent me a ‘wire’ explaining the delay.”

“He may have lost his connection in London,” Murie suggested.

“Perhaps so,” remarked the Baronet with a sigh, his fingers moving mechanically.

Murie could see that he was unnerved and unlike himself.  He, of course, was unaware of the great interests depending upon the theft of those papers from his safe.  But the old man was anxious to hear from Goslin what had occurred at the urgent meeting of the secret syndicate in Paris.

Gabrielle was chatting gaily with her father in an endeavour to cheer him up, when suddenly the door opened, and Flockart, still in his travelling ulster, entered, exclaiming, “Good-morning, Sir Henry.”

“Why, my dear Flockart, this is really quite unexpected.  I—­I thought you were abroad,” cried the Baronet, his face brightening as he stretched out his hand for his visitor to grasp.

“So I have been.  I only got back to town yesterday morning, and left Euston last night.”

“Well,” said Sir Henry, “I’m very glad you are here again.  I’ve missed you very much—­very much indeed.  I hope you’ll make another long stay with us at Glencardine.”

The man addressed raised his eyes to Gabrielle’s.

She looked him straight in the face, defiant and unflinching.  The day of her self-sacrifice to protect her helpless father’s honour and welfare had come.  She had suffered much in silence—­suffered as no other girl would suffer; but she had tried to conceal the bitter truth.  Her spirit had been broken.  She was obsessed by one fear, one idea.

For a moment the girl held her breath.  Walter saw the sudden change in her countenance, and wondered.

Then, with a calmness that was surprising, she turned to her father, and in a clear, distinct voice said, “Dad, now that Mr. Flockart has returned, I wish to tell you the truth concerning him—­to warn you that he is not your friend, but your very worst enemy!”