On reflection, he was convinced of a certainty that solved a problem which had preoccupied him for a long time—­namely, the mysterious connection between his own presence in the mansion in the Place du Palais-Bourbon and the presence of a woman who was manifestly wreaking her hatred on him.

He now understood that he had not bought the house by accident.  In making the purchase he had been persuaded by an anonymous offer that reached him in the form of a typewritten prospectus.  Whence did this offer come, if not from Florence, who wished to have him near her in order to spy upon him and wage war upon him?

“Yes,” he thought, “that is where the truth lies.  As the possible heir of Cosmo Mornington and a prominent figure in the case, I am the enemy, and they are trying to do away with me as they did with the others.  And it is Florence who is acting against me.  And it is she who has committed murder.

“Everything tells against her; nothing speaks in her defence.  Her innocent eyes?  The accent of sincerity in her voice?  Her serene dignity?  And then?  Yes, what then?  Have I never seen women with that frank look who have committed murder for no reason, almost for pleasure’s sake?”

He started with terror at the memory of Dolores Kesselbach.  What was it that made him connect these two women at every moment in his mind?  He had loved one of them, that monster Dolores, and had strangled her with his own hands.  Was fate now leading him toward a like love and a similar murder?

When Florence left him he would experience a sense of satisfaction and breathe more easily, as though released from an oppressive weight, but he would run to the window and see her crossing the courtyard and be still waiting when the girl whose scented breath he had felt upon his face passed to and fro.

One morning she said to him: 

“The papers say that it will be to-night.”

“To-night?”

“Yes,” she said, showing him an article in one of the newspapers.  “This is the twenty-fifth; and, according to the information of the police, supplied, they say, by you, there should be a letter delivered in the house on the Boulevard Suchet every tenth day, and the house is to be destroyed by an explosion on the day when the fifth and last letter appears.”

Was she defying him?  Did she wish to make him understand that, whatever happened, whatever the obstacles, the letters would appear, those mysterious letters prophesied on the list which he had found in the eighth volume of Shakespeare’s plays?

He looked at her steadily.  She did not flinch.  He answered: 

“Yes, this is the night.  I shall be there.  Nothing in the world will prevent me.”

She was on the point of replying, but once more controlled her feelings.

That day Don Luis was on his guard.  He lunched and dined out and arranged with Mazeroux to have the Place du Palais-Bourbon watched.