“It would be impossible under the circumstances,” I agreed.

“Under any circumstances,” said the duchess haughtily.

By this time a covered conveyance had been procured, and when the duchess, having fired her last scornful remark at me, walked to the door of the inn, the body of the duke was being placed in it.  Gustave de Berensac assisted the servant, and their task was just accomplished when Jacques Bontet was carried by two of the police to the door.  The man was alive and would recover, they said, and be able to stand his trial.  But as yet no news had come of the fortune that attended the pursuit of Raymond Pinceau, otherwise known as Pierre.  It was conjectured that he must have had a boat waiting for him at or near the Mount, and, gaining it, had for the moment at least made good his escape.

“But we shall find about that from Bontet,” said one of them, with a complacent nod at the fellow who lay still in a sort of stupor, with blood-stained bandages round his head.

I stood by the door of the duchess’ carriage, in which she and Gustave were to follow the body of the duke, and when she came to step in I offered her my hand.  But she would have none of it.  She got in unassisted, and Gustave followed her.  They were about to move off, when suddenly, running from the house in wild dismay, came Marie Delhasse, and caring for none of those who stood round, she seized my arm, crying: 

“My mother is neither in the sitting room nor in her bedroom!  Where is she?”

Now I saw no need to tell Marie at that time what had become of Mme. Delhasse.  The matter, however, was not left in my hands; no, nor in those of Gustave de Berensac, who called out hastily to the driver, “Ready!  Go on, go on!” The duchess called “Wait!” and then she turned to Marie Delhasse and said in calm cold tones: 

“You ask where your mother is.  Well, then, where is the necklace?”

Marie drew back as though she had been struck; yet her grip did not leave my arm, but tightened on it.

“The necklace?” she gasped.

And the duchess, using the most scornful words she knew and giving a short little laugh, said.

“Your mother has levanted with the necklace.  Of course you didn’t know!”

Thus, if Marie Delhasse had been stern to the Duke of Saint-Maclou when he lay dying, his wife avenged him to the full and more.  For at the words, at the sight of the duchess’ disdainful face and of my troubled look, Marie uttered a cry and reeled and sank half-fainting in my arms.

“Oh, drive on!” said the Duchess of Saint-Maclou in a wearied tone.

And away they drove, leaving us two alone.  Nor did Marie speak again, unless it were in distressed incoherent protests, till, an hour later, I delivered her into the charge of the Mother Superior at the convent by the side of the bay.  And the old lady bade me wait till she saw Marie comfortably bestowed, and then she returned to me and we walked side by side for a while in the little burying-ground, she listening to an outline of my story.  Perhaps I, in a lover’s zeal, spoke harshly of the duchess; for the old lady put her hand upon my arm and said to me: