But there, on the bureau, he found a letter addressed to him in the handwriting of Valerie.

At the moment he picked it up his valet entered the room in answer to his ring.

Some intuition warned the duke to send the man away while he should read his letter.

“Have a warm bath ready for me at nine o’clock, Dubois, and order breakfast at half-past,” he said.

The man bowed and left the room.

The duke dropped into a chair, and with a strange, vague foreboding of evil, opened the letter.

Well might he shrink from the dread perusal of the story—­the story of her cowardice and folly, and of his own humiliation and despair.

It was Valerie’s full confession, the revelation of her woeful history as it is known to the reader, with one single reservation—­the name of her lover.

The Duke of Hereward had wonderful powers of self-control.  He read the fatal letter through to the bitter end.  Then he folded it up carefully, and locked it up in a cabinet for safe-keeping.

And when, fifteen minutes later, his valet came to tell him that it was nine o’clock, and his bath was ready, no one could have guessed from his looks that a storm had passed through his soul.

He was rather pale, certainly; but that might well be explained by the fatigue of a long night’s journey, and his gray mustache and beard concealed the close compression of his lips.  He went through his morning toilet and his breakfast with apparently his usual composure.

After breakfast, however, he instituted a cautious but close investigation of the circumstances attending the flight of the duchess.

The servants, having nothing to gain from concealment and nothing to fear from communication, spoke freely of the daily visits of the Count de Volaski, continued through the seven weeks of the duke’s absence.

Then the dreadful light of conviction burst full upon his startled intelligence.  Count Waldemar de Volaski had been her acquaintance at the Court of St. Petersburg!  He it was, then, who had been the hero of her foolish love story and mad marriage, before the duke had ever seen her.  He it was who had been her constant visitor during the duke’s absence.  He it was who was the companion of her flight!

The duke did not believe Valerie’s solemn declaration, that she left Paris only to isolate herself from every one and live a single, lonely life.  Valerie had deceived him once, by keeping a fatal secret from him, and he would not trust her now.  He believed that she had gone away with the Russian count to remain with him.  The duke’s rage and jealousy were roused and burning against them both.

He was determined to find out the place of their retreat, and to take immediate and signal vengeance.

He put the case in the hands of the most expert detectives, with instructions to use the utmost caution and secrecy in their investigations.