“There’s that funny old couple—­I mean the man called Fritz Something-or-other and his wife.  Surely they’re all right?” observed Chester.

Paul de Virieu shook his head decidedly.

“The Wachners are not nice people,” he said slowly.  “They appear to be very fond of Mrs. Bailey, I know, but they are only fond of themselves.  They are adventurers; ‘out for the stuff,’ as Americans say.  Old Fritz is the worst type of gambler—­the type that believes he is going to get rich, rich beyond dreams of avarice, by a ‘system.’  Such a man will do anything for money.  I believe they knew far more of the disappearance of Madame Wolsky than anyone else did.”

The Count lowered his voice, and leant over the table.

“I have suspected,” he went on—­“nay, I have felt sure from the very first, Mr. Chester, that the Wachners are blackmailers.  I am convinced that they discovered something to that poor lady’s discredit, and—­after making her pay—­drove her away!  Just before she left Lacville they were trying to raise money at the Casino money-changer’s on some worthless shares.  But after Madame Wolsky’s disappearance they had plenty of gold and notes.”

Chester looked across at his companion.  At last he was really impressed.  Blackmailing is a word which has a very ugly sound in an English lawyer’s ears.

“If that is really true,” he said suddenly, “I almost feel as if I ought to go back to Lacville to-night.  I suppose there are heaps of trains?”

“You might, at all events, wait till to-morrow morning,” said Paul de Virieu, drily.

He also had suddenly experienced a thrill of that primitive passion, jealousy, which had surprised Chester but a few moments before.  But the Count was a Frenchman.  He was familiar with the sensation—­nay, he welcomed it.  It showed that he was still young—­still worthy to be one of the great company of lovers.

Sylvia, his “petite amie Anglaise,” seemed to have come very near to him in the last few moments.  He saw her blue eyes brim with tears at his harsh words—­he thrilled as he had thrilled with the overmastering impulse which had made him take her into his arms—­her hand lay once more in his hand, as it had lain, for a moment this morning.

Had he grasped and retained that kind, firm little hand in his, an entirely new life had been within his reach.

A vision rose before Paul de Virieu—­a vision of Sylvia and himself living heart to heart in one of those small, stately manor-houses which are scattered throughout Brittany.  And it was no vague house of dreams.  He knew the little chateau very well.  Had not his sister driven him there only the other day?  And had she not conveyed to him in delicate, generous words how gladly she would see his sweet English friend established there as chatelaine?

A sense of immeasurable loss came over Paul de Virieu—­But, no, he had been right!  Quite right!  He loved Sylvia far too well to risk making her as unhappy as he would almost certainly be tempted to make her, if she became his wife.