So I picked the collar up and carried it into the next room and held it under the light of the incandescent gas-mantle.  The letters of the maker’s name were almost obliterated, but after a careful study I was able to make them out.  The name was Maclay & Robitaille, and the place of manufacture Quebec.  This confirmed my belief concerning Jacqueline’s nativity.

I pried the plate from the leather and slipped it into my pocket.  I put the broken collar into my suitcase, together with the dagger, and then I set about packing my things for the journey which we were to undertake.

I had always accustomed myself to travel with a minimum of baggage, and the suit-case, which was a roomy one, held all that I should need at any time.  When I had finished packing I went back to Jacqueline and sat beside her while she slept.  As I sat dawn I heard a city clock strike five.

In a little while it would begin to lighten, and the advent of the day filled me with a sort of terror.

I watched the sleeping girl.  Who was she?  How could she sleep calmly after that night’s deed?  The mystery seemed unfathomable; the girl alone in the city, the robbers, the dog, the dead man, and the one who had escaped me.

Jacqueline’s bag lay on the bureau and disgorging bills.  There were rolls and rolls of them—­eight thousand dollars did not seem too much.

Besides these, the bag contained the usual feminine properties:  a handkerchief, sachet-bag, a pocket mirror, and some thin papers, coated with rice-powder.

The thought crossed my mind that the bills might be counterfeit, and I picked one up and looked carefully at it, comparing it with one from my own pocketbook.  But I was soon satisfied that they were real.  Well—­I turned back to Jacqueline, ashamed of the suspicion that had crossed my mind.

Her soft brown hair streamed over the pillow and hung down toward the floor, a heavy mass, uncoiled from the wound braids upon her neck.  Her breast rose and fell evenly with her breathing.  She looked even younger than on the preceding evening.  I was sure now that she was innocent of evil, and my unworthy thoughts made me ashamed.  Her outstretched arm was extended beyond the edge of the bed.

I raised her hand and held in it my own, and I sat thus until the room began to lighten, watching her all the while.

It was strange that as I sat there I began to grow comforted.  I looked on her as mine.  When I had kissed her hands I had forgotten the ring upon her finger; and now, holding that hand in mine and running my fingers round and round the circlet of gold, I was not troubled at all.  I could not think of her as any other man’s.  She was mine—­Jacqueline.

Presently she stirred, her eyes opened, and she sat up.  I placed a pillow at her back.  She gazed at me with apathy, but there was also recognition in her look.

“Do you know me, Jacqueline?” I asked.