“Five thousand francs!” exclaimed Edna.  “Absurd!  I have not that much money with me.  I haven’t but a hundred francs, but that ought to satisfy you.”

“Oh, no,” said Banker, “not at all.  But don’t trouble yourself.  You have not the money, and I have not the letter.  The letter is in my lodgings.  I was not fool enough to bring it with me, and have you call a policeman to arrest me, and take it for nothing.  But if you will be here in two hours, with five thousand francs, and will promise me, upon your honor, that you will bring no one with you, and will not call the police as soon as you have the letter, I will be here with it.”

“Yes,” said Edna, “I promise.”

She felt humbled and ashamed as she said it, but there was nothing else to do.  In spite of her feelings, in spite of the cost, she must have the letter.

“Very good,” said Banker, and he departed.

Banker had no lodgings in particular, but he went to a brasserie and procured writing materials.  He had some letters in his pocket,—­old, dirty letters which had been there for a long time,—­and one of them was from Raminez, which had been written when they were both in California, and which Banker had kept because it contained an unguarded reference to Raminez’s family in Spain, and Banker had thought that the information might some day be useful to him.  He was a good penman, this Rackbird,—­he was clever in many ways,—­and he could imitate handwriting very well, and he set himself to work to address an envelope in the handwriting of Raminez.

For some time he debated within himself as to what title he should use in addressing the lady.  Should it be “Senora” or “Madame”?  He inclined to the first appellation, but afterwards thought that as the letter was to go to her in France, and that as most likely she understood French, and not Spanish, Raminez would probably address her in the former language, and therefore he addressed the envelope to “Madame Raminez, by private hand.”  As to the writing of a letter he did not trouble himself at all.  He simply folded up two sheets of paper and put them in the envelope, sealing it tightly.  Now he was prepared, and after waiting until the proper time had arrived he proceeded to the Gardens.

Edna drove to her hotel in great agitation.  She was angry, she was astounded, she was almost frightened.  What could have happened to Captain Horn?

But two things encouraged and invigorated her:  he was alive, and he had written to her.  That was everything, and she would banish all speculations and fears until she had read his letter, and, until she had read it, she must keep the matter a secret—­she must not let anybody imagine that she had heard anything, or was about to hear anything.  By good fortune, she had five thousand francs in hand, and, with these in her pocket-book, she ordered her carriage half an hour before the time appointed.