She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. Another long interval elapsed. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. And see!" he added, as the figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. It was not quite the search I intended,’ he said with a touch of selfmockery as he released her, ‘but success comes in all sorts of unexpected ways. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. He died when I was. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered.
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