He cried at once:  “Where’s Ste. Marie?  Where is he?  He hasn’t tried to walk into the city?”

“He is asleep in the house,” said the girl.  “He was struck on the head and stunned.  I got him into the house, and he is asleep now.  Of course,” she said, “we could wake him, but it would probably be better to let him sleep as long as he will if it is possible.  It will save him a great deal of pain, I think.  He’ll have a frightful headache if he’s wakened now.  Could you come for him or send for him to-morrow—­toward noon?”

“Why—­yes, I suppose so,” said Richard Hartley.  “Yes, of course, if you think that’s better.  Could I just see him for a moment?” He stared at the girl a bit suspiciously, and Coira looked back at him with a little tired smile, for she read his thought.

“You want to make sure,” said she.  “Of course!  Yes, come in.  He’s sleeping very soundly.”  She led the man into that dim room where Ste. Marie lay, and Hartley’s quick eye noted the basin of water and the stained towels and the little bottle of aromatic salts.  He bent over his friend to see the bruise at the side of the head, and listened to the sleeper’s breathing.  Then the two went out again to the moonlit terrace.

“You must forgive me,” said he, when they had come there.  “You must forgive me for seeming suspicious, but—­all this wretched business—­and he is my closest friend—­I’ve come to suspect everybody.  I was unjust, for you helped us to get away.  I beg your pardon!”

The girl smiled at him again, her little, white, tired smile, and she said:  “There is nothing I would not do to make amends—­now that I know—­the truth.”

“Yes,” said Hartley, “I understand.  Arthur Benham told me how Stewart lied to you all.  Was it he who struck Ste. Marie?”

She nodded.  “And then tried to shoot him; but he didn’t succeed in that.  I wonder where he is—­Captain Stewart?”

“I have him out in the car,” Hartley said.  “Oh, he shall pay, you may be sure!—­if he doesn’t die and cheat us, that is.  I nearly ran the car over him a few minutes ago.  If it hadn’t been for the moonlight I would have done for him.  He was lying on his face in that lane that leads to the Issy road.  I don’t know what is the matter with him.  He’s only half conscious and he’s quite helpless.  He looks as if he’d had a stroke of apoplexy or something.  I must hurry him back to Paris, I suppose, and get him under a doctor’s care.  I wonder what’s wrong with him?”

The girl shook her head, for she did not know of Stewart’s epileptic seizures.  She thought it quite possible that he had suffered a stroke of apoplexy as Hartley suggested, for she remembered the half-mad state he had been in.

Richard Hartley stood for a time in thought.  “I must get Stewart back to Paris at once,” he said, finally.  “I must get him under care and in a safe place from which he can’t escape.  It will want some managing.  If I can get away I’ll come out here again in the morning, but if not I’ll send the car out with orders to wait here until Ste. Marie is ready to return to the city.  Are you sure he’s all right—­that he isn’t badly hurt?”