“I suppose they will not try to stop us?”

“Who should try?” he asked.

“The people of the hotel—­the police—­I cannot exactly say whom; but I dread something of the sort.  I don’t quite understand that manager.  He has been up to see me several times, and he spoke rather oddly, rather rudely.”

“Then he shall answer for it,” snorted Sir Charles, hotly.  “It is the fault of that brute of a detective, I suppose.  Still they would hardly dare—­”

“A detective?  What?  Here?  Are you sure?”

“Perfectly sure.  It is one of those from the Lyons Station.  I knew him again directly, and he was inclined to be interfering.  Why, I caught him trying—­but that reminds me—­I rescued this telegram from his clutches.”

He took the little blue envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her, kissing the tips of her fingers as she took it from him.

“Ah!”

A sudden ejaculation of dismay escaped her, when, after rather carelessly tearing the message open, she had glanced at it.

“What is the matter?” he asked in eager solicitude.  “May I not know?”

She made no offer to give him the telegram, and said in a faltering voice, and with much hesitation of manner, “I do not know.  I hardly think—­of course I do not like to withhold anything, not now.  And yet, this is a business which concerns me only, I am afraid.  I ought not to drag you into it.”

“What concerns you is very much my business, too.  I do not wish to force your confidence, still—­”

She gave him the telegram quite obediently, with a little sigh of relief, glad to realize now, for the first time after many years, that there was some one to give her orders and take the burden of trouble off her shoulders.

He read it, but did not understand it in the least.  It ran:  “I must see you immediately, and beg you will come.  You will find Hortense here.  She is giving trouble.  You only can deal with her.  Do not delay.  Come at once, or we must go to you.—­Ripaldi, Hotel Ivoire, Rue Bellechasse.”

“What does this mean?  Who sends it?  Who is Ripaldi?” asked Sir Charles, rather brusquely.

“He—­he—­oh, Charles, I shall have to go.  Anything would be better than his coming here.”

“Ripaldi?  Haven’t I heard the name?  He was one of those in the sleeping-car, I think?  The Chief of the Detective Police called it out once or twice.  Am I not right?  Please tell me—­am I not right?”

“Yes, yes; this man was there with the rest of us.  A dark man, who sat near the door—­”

“Ah, to be sure.  But what—­what in Heaven’s name has he to do with you?  How does he dare to send you such an impudent message as this?  Surely, Sabine, you will tell me?  You will admit that I have a right to ask?”

“Yes, of course.  I will tell you, Charles, everything; but not here—­not now.  It must be on the way.  I have been very wrong, very foolish—­but oh, come, come, do let us be going.  I am so afraid he might—­”