But even as he spoke he knew well enough that some of the pearls—­perhaps five or six—­had found their way up his wife’s capacious sleeve.

And then, quite suddenly, Madame Wachner uttered a hoarse exclamation of terror.  One of the gendarmes had climbed up on to the window-sill, and was now half into the room.  She waddled quickly across to the door, only to find another gendarme in the hall.

Sylvia’s eyes glistened, and a sensation which had hitherto been quite unknown to her took possession of her, soul and body.  She longed for revenge—­revenge, not for herself so much as for her murdered friend.  She clutched Paul by the arm.  “They killed Anna Wolsky,” she whispered.  “She is lying buried in the wood, where they meant to put me if you had not come just—­only just—­in time!”

Paul de Virieu took Sylvia’s hat off the dining-room table, and placed it in her hand, closing her fingers over the brim.  With a mechanical gesture she raised her arms and put it on her head.  Then he ceremoniously offered her his arm, and led her out of the dining-room into the hall.

While actually within the Chalet des Muguets Count Paul only once broke silence.  That was when Madame Wachner, still talking volubly, held out her hand in farewell to the young Englishwoman.

“I forbid you to touch her!” the Count muttered between his teeth, and Sylvia, withdrawing her half-outstretched hand, meekly obeyed him.

Paul de Virieu beckoned to the oldest of the police officials present.

“You will remember the disappearance from Lacville of a Polish lady?  I have reason to believe these people murdered her.  When once I have placed Madame Bailey under medical care, I will return here.  Meanwhile you, of course, know what to do.”

“But M’sieur, ought I not to detain this English lady?”

“Certainly not.  I make myself responsible for her.  She is in no state to bear an interrogation.  Lock up these people in separate rooms.  I will send you reinforcements, and to-morrow morning dig up the little wood behind the house.”

Behind them came the gruff and the shrill tones of L’Ami Fritz and his wife raised in indignant expostulation.

“Are you coming, Sylvia?” called out Chester impatiently.

He had gone on into the garden, unwilling to assume any responsibility as to the police.  After all, there was no evidence, not what English law would recognise as evidence, against these people.

Out in the darkness, with the two men, one on either side of her, Sylvia walked slowly to the gate.  Between them they got her over it and into the victoria.

Paul de Virieu pulled out the little back seat, but Chester, taking quick possession of it, motioned him to sit by Mrs. Bailey.

“To Paris, Hotel du Louvre,” the Count called out to the driver.  “You can take as long as you like over the journey!”

Then he bent forward to Chester, “The air will do her good,” he murmured.