“He didn’t get far, then!” cried Sir Charles.  “You look surprised, Jack.  Didn’t they tell you?  This Quadling was the man murdered in the sleeping-car.  It was no doubt for the money he carried with him.”

“Was it Quadling?  My word! what a terrible Nemesis.  Well, nil nisi bonum, but I never thought much of the chap, and your friend the Countess has had an escape.  But now, sir, I must be moving.  My engagement is for twelve noon.  If you want me, mind you send—­207 Rue Miromesnil, or to the Embassy; but let us arrange to meet this evening, eh?  Dinner and a theatre—­what do you say?”

Then Colonel Papillon rode off, and the General was driven to the Boulevard des Capucines, having much to occupy his thoughts by the way.

It did not greatly please him to have this story of the Countess’s relations with Quadling, as first hinted at by the police, endorsed now by his friend Papillon.  Clearly she had kept up her acquaintance, her intimacy to the very last:  why otherwise should she have received him, alone, been closeted with him for an hour or more on the very eve of his flight?  It was a clandestine acquaintance too, or seemed so, for Sir Charles, although a frequent visitor at her house, had never met Quadling there.

What did it all mean?  And yet, what, after all, did it matter to him?

A good deal really more than he chose to admit to himself, even now, when closely questioning his secret heart.  The fact was, the Countess had made a very strong impression on him from the first.  He had admired her greatly during the past winter at Rome, but then it was only a passing fancy, as he thought,—­the pleasant platonic flirtation of a middle-aged man, who never expected to inspire or feel a great love.  Only now, when he had shared a serious trouble with her, had passed through common difficulties and dangers, he was finding what accident may do—­how it may fan a first liking into a stronger flame.  It was absurd, of course.  He was fifty-one, he had weathered many trifling affairs of the heart, and here he was, bowled over at last, and by a woman he was not certain was entitled to his respect.

What was he to do?

The answer came at once and unhesitatingly, as it would to any other honest, chivalrous gentleman.

“By George, I’ll stick to her through thick and thin!  I’ll trust her whatever happens or has happened, come what may.  Such a woman as that is above suspicion.  She must be straight.  I should be a beast and a blackguard double distilled to think anything else.  I am sure she can put all right with a word, can explain everything when she chooses.  I will wait till she does.”

Thus fortified and decided, Sir Charles took his way to the Hotel Madagascar about noon.  At the desk he inquired for the Countess, and begged that his card might be sent up to her.  The man looked at it, then at the visitor, as he stood there waiting rather impatiently, then again at the card.  At last he walked out and across the inner courtyard of the hotel to the office.  Presently the manager came back, bowing low, and, holding the card in his hand, began a desultory conversation.