On the next occasion that the two met, it was again Harry Wethermill who sought Helene Vauquier.  He talked for a minute or two upon indifferent subjects, and then he said quickly: 

“I suppose Mme. Dauvray is very rich?”

“She has a great fortune in jewels,” said Helene Vauquier.

Wethermill started.  He was agitated that evening, the woman saw.  His hands shook, his face twitched.  Clearly he was hard put to it.  For he seldom betrayed himself.  She thought it time to strike.

“Jewels which she keeps in the safe in her bedroom,” she added.

“Then why don’t you—–?” he began, and stopped.

“I said that I too needed help,” replied Helene, without a ruffle of her composure.

It was nine o’clock at night.  Helene Vauquier had come down to the Casino with a wrap for Mme. Dauvray.  The two people were walking down the little street of which the Casino blocks the end.  And it happened that an attendant at the Casino, named Alphonse Ruel, passed them, recognised them both, and—­smiled to himself with some amusement.  What was Wethermill doing in company with Mme. Dauvray’s maid?  Ruel had no doubt.  Ruel had seen Wethermill often enough these recent days with Mme. Dauvray’s pretty companion.  Ruel had all a Frenchman’s sympathy with lovers.  He wished them well, those two young and attractive people, and hoped that the maid would help their plans.

But as he passed he caught a sentence spoken suddenly by Wethermill.

“Well, it is true; I must have money.”  And the agitated voice and words remained fixed in his memory.  He heard, too, a warning “Hush!” from the maid.  Then they passed out of his hearing.  But he turned and saw that Wethermill was talking volubly.  What Harry Wethermill was saying he was saying in a foolish burst of confidence.

“You have guessed it, Helene—­you alone.”  He had mortgaged his patent twice over—­once in France, once in England—­and the second time had been a month ago.  He had received a large sum down, which went to pay his pressing creditors.  He had hoped to pay the sum back from a new invention.

“But Helene, I tell you,” he said, “I have a conscience.”  And when she smiled he explained.  “Oh, not what the priests would call a conscience; that I know.  But none the less I have a conscience—­a conscience about the things which really matter, at all events to me.  There is a flaw in that new invention.  It can be improved; I know that.  But as yet I do not see how, and—­I cannot help it—­I must get it right; I cannot let it go imperfect when I know that it’s imperfect, when I know that it can be improved, when I am sure that I shall sooner or later hit upon the needed improvement.  That is what I mean when I say I have a conscience.”

Helena Vauquier smiled indulgently.  Men were queer fish.  Things which were really of no account troubled and perplexed them and gave them sleepless nights.  But it was not for her to object, since it was one of these queer anomalies which was giving her her chance.