however, the Countess entered and demanded to know the condition of her child.
“She is much better, madame,” he answered. “Perfect quiet is, however, necessary, and constant observation of the temperature. To-morrow, or the day after, you may, I think, see her.”
“Not till then!” she cried. “I cannot wait so long.”
“But it is necessary. Your daughter’s life hangs upon a single thread.”
She was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless.
A few minutes later Jean entered with a message from Trépard asking Dick and myself to consult with him. We therefore left the Countess again, and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago was lying. As we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of recognition, and in an instant I was at her side.
“Yolande!” I cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had been defeated by life. “Yolande! my darling,” I burst forth involuntarily, “you have come back to me!”
A sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked:
“Gerald, is it actually you?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course it is. These two gentlemen are doctors,” I added. “This is my old friend Deane; and the other is Doctor Trépard, of whom I daresay you have heard.”
She nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions; then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her. She seemed in utter ignorance of it all.
“You were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after I left, and they thought you were dead,” I explained. “Cannot you tell us how it occurred?”
A puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to remember.
“I recollect nothing,” she declared.
“But you surely remember how you were attacked?” I urged.
“Attacked!” she echoed in surprise. “No one attacked me.”
“I did not mean that,” I answered, rather puzzled at her quick protest. “I meant that you were probably aware of the symptoms which preceded your unconsciousness.”
“I felt a strange dizziness and a curious tightness in the throat and chest. That is all I remember. All became blank until I opened my eyes again and found myself lying here, with these two gentlemen standing at my side. The duration of my unconsciousness did not appear to me longer than a few minutes.”
“Then mademoiselle has no idea of the cause of her strange illness?” inquired Deane in French. “None whatever, m’sieur.”
“Tell us one fact,” he urged. “During the time which elapsed between your parting with M’sieur Ingram and your sudden unconsciousness, did anyone enter the room?”
“No one; of that I am absolutely certain.”
“How were you occupied during that time?”
“I was writing a letter.”
“And before you rose did you feel the curious giddiness?”
“No, not until after I stood up. I tried to shout and attract help, but could not. Then I reached to press the bell, but stumbled forward, and the next instant I was lost in what seemed to be a dense fog.”
“Curious!” ejaculated Trépard, who stood by with folded arms, eagerly listening to every word – “very curious!”
“Did you feel any strange sensation on the left side of your neck beneath the ear, or upon your lower lip?” inquired Deane earnestly.
She reflected for a moment, then said:
“Now that I remember, there was a curious numbness of my lip.”
“Followed immediately by unconsciousness?”
“Yes, almost immediately.”
The doctors exchanged glances, which showed that the mark upon the lip was the chief enigma of the situation.
Trépard glanced at his watch, dissolved yet another pillule of hydrated peroxide of iron, and handed her the draught to swallow. The antidote had acted almost like magic.
“You are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after Ingram had left?” repeated Deane, as though not yet satisfied.
“Absolutely.”
Dick Deane turned his eyes full upon me, and I divined his thoughts. He was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered that room. He was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her secret.
“My mother knows that I am recovering?” she went on. “If she does not, please tell her. She has been so distressed of late that this must have been the crowning blow to her.”
“I have told madame your mother everything,” I said. “Do not be uneasy on her account.”
“Ah,” she sighed, “how I regret that we came to Paris! I regret it all, Gerald, save that you and I have met again;” and she stretched out her hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she toyed like a child.
“And this meeting has really given you satisfaction?” I whispered to her, heedless of the presence of the others.
“Not only satisfaction,” she answered, so softly that I alone could catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of passionate affection which can never be simulated; “it has given back to me a desire for happiness, for life, for love.”
There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and her small hand trembled within my grasp. My heart at that moment was too full for mere words. True, I loved her with a mad fondness that I had never before entertained for any woman; yet, nevertheless, a hideous shadow arose between us, shutting her off from me for ever – the shadow of her secret – the secret that she, my well-beloved, was actually a spy.
Chapter Nine
At the Elysée
Having reassured myself of Yolande’s recovery, I was compelled to rush off, slip into uniform, and attend a dinner at the Elysée. The function was a brilliant affair, as are all the official junketings of the French President. At the right of the head of the Republic, who was distinguishable by his crimson sash, sat the Countess Tornelli, with the wife of the United States Ambassador on his left. The President’s wife – who wore a superb gown of corn-coloured miroir velvet, richly embroidered and inlaid with Venetian lace, a veritable triumph of the Rue de la Paix – had on her right the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor Lerenzelli, the doyen of the Diplomatic Corps, while on her left was my Chief, Lord Barmouth.
The seat next me was allotted to his daughter Sibyl, who looked charming in rose chiffon. During dinner she chatted merrily, describing a charity bazaar which she had attended that afternoon accompanied by her mother. On the other side of her sat Count Berchtold, the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, who was, I shrewdly suspected, one of her most devoted admirers. She was charming – a typical, smart English girl; and
