“Your Excellency!” he exclaimed.

The ambassador turned quickly towards him.

“Where is Delora?” he asked.

“He was here but five seconds ago,” Lamartine answered.  “He must have left the door as you entered it!”

The man who was standing with my lady of the turquoises turned suddenly round.

“Delora!” he exclaimed.  “That is my name!  I am Ferdinand Delora!  My brother Maurice was here a moment ago.  You are Signor Vanhallon, are you not?” he continued.  “You must remember me!”

The ambassador grasped him by the hand.

“My dear Delora,” he said, “of course I do!  What has been the meaning of all this mystery?”

Lamartine stepped quickly forward.

“Can’t you see what it all means?” he exclaimed.  “Ferdinand Delora here arrives in Paris on a secret mission to England.  There, through some reason or through some cause,—­who knows?—­he falls ill.  There comes to London Maurice Delora with some papers, playing his part.  Maurice Delora was here a moment ago.  His game is up and he is evidently gone.  The one thing to be feared is that we are too late!”

The ambassador turned swiftly to the new Delora, who was looking from one to the other with the pained, half-vacant expression of a child.

“Delora,” he exclaimed, “how comes it that you have let your brother intervene?  Did you not understand how secret your mission was to be?—­how important?”

The man shook his head slowly.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I have been ill.  I know nothing.  There was an accident in Paris.  I have no papers any longer.  Maurice has them all.”

My lady of the turquoises plunged into the conversation.

“But it has been a wicked conspiracy!” she cried.  “Monsieur here,” she added, clutching his arm, “was drugged and poisoned.  Since then he has been like a child.  He was left to die, but I found him, I brought him here And meanwhile, that wicked brother has been playing his part,—­using even his name.”

I went to Felicia.

“Felicia,” I said, “it is you who can clear this up.  The time has come when you must speak.”

Felicia was standing with her hands clasped to her head, looking from one to the other of the speakers as though she were trying in vain to follow the sense of what they said.  At my words she turned to me a little piteously.  She was beginning to understand, but she had not realized the whole truth yet.

“The lady over there,” she said, pointing to my lady of the turquoises, “has spoken the truth.  Uncle Ferdinand was ill when he arrived in Paris.  He stayed with us—­that is, my uncle Maurice and I—­in the Rue d’Hauteville.  He seemed to get worse all the time, and he was worried because of some business in London which he could not attend to.  Then it was arranged that my Uncle Maurice should take his place and come over here, only no one was to know that it was not Ferdinand himself.  It was secret business for the Brazilian Government.  I do not know what it was about, but it was very important.”