her fingers closed convulsively on the pocket.
“But this is abominable!” she cried. “You look as if—”
“I beg you, mademoiselle,” interrupted Guerchard. “We are sometimes obliged—”
“Really, Mademoiselle Sonia,” broke in the Duke, in a singularly clear and piercing tone, “I cannot see why you should object to this mere formality.”
“Oh, but—but—” gasped Sonia, raising her terror-stricken eyes to his.
The Duke seemed to hold them with his own; and he said in the same clear, piercing voice, “There isn’t the slightest reason for you to be frightened.”
Sonia let go of the cloak, and Guerchard, his face all alight with triumph, plunged his hand into the pocket. He drew it out empty, and stared at it, while his face fell to an utter, amazed blankness.
“Nothing? nothing?” he muttered under his breath. And he stared at his empty hand as if he could not believe his eyes.
By a violent effort he forced an apologetic smile on his face, and said to Sonia: “A thousand apologies, mademoiselle.”
He handed the cloak to her. Sonia took it and turned to go. She took a step towards the door, and tottered.
The Duke sprang forward and caught her as she was falling.
“Do you feel faint?” he said in an anxious voice.
“Thank you, you just saved me in time,” muttered Sonia.
“I’m really very sorry,” said Guerchard.
“Thank you, it was nothing. I’m all right now,” said Sonia, releasing herself from the Duke’s supporting arm.
She drew herself up, and walked quietly out of the room.
Guerchard went back to M. Formery at the writing-table.
“You made a clumsy mistake there, Guerchard,” said M. Formery, with a touch of gratified malice in his tone.
Guerchard took no notice of it: “I want you to give orders that nobody leaves the house without my permission,” he said, in a low voice.
“No one except Mademoiselle Kritchnoff, I suppose,” said M. Formery, smiling.
“She less than any one,” said Guerchard quickly.
“I don’t understand what you’re driving at a bit,” said M. Formery. “Unless you suppose that Mademoiselle Kritchnoff is Lupin in disguise.”
Guerchard laughed softly: “You will have your joke, M. Formery,” he said.
“Well, well, I’ll give the order,” said M. Formery, somewhat mollified by the tribute to his humour.
He called the inspector to him and whispered a word in his ear. Then he rose and said: “I think, gentlemen, we ought to go and examine the bedrooms, and, above all, make sure that the safe in M. Gournay-Martin’s bedroom has not been tampered with.”
“I was wondering how much longer we were going to waste time here talking about that stupid pendant,” grumbled the millionaire; and he rose and led the way.
“There may also be some jewel-cases in the bedrooms,” said M. Formery. “There are all the wedding presents. They were in charge of Victoire,” said Germaine quickly. “It would be dreadful if they had been stolen. Some of them are from the first families in France.”
“They would replace them…those paper-knives,” said the Duke, smiling.
Germaine and her father led the way. M. Formery, Guerchard, and the inspector followed them. At the door the Duke paused, stopped, closed it on them softly. He came back to the window, put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the packet wrapped in tissue-paper.
He unfolded the paper with slow, reluctant fingers, and revealed the pendant.
CHAPTER XIII
LUPIN WIRES
The Duke stared at the pendant, his eyes full of wonder and pity.
“Poor little girl!” he said softly under his breath.
He put the pendant carefully away in his waistcoat-pocket and stood staring thoughtfully out of the window.
The door opened softly, and Sonia came quickly into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. Her face was a dead white; her skin had lost its lustre of fine porcelain, and she stared at him with eyes dim with anguish.
In a hoarse, broken voice, she muttered: “Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!”
“A thief—you?” said the Duke, in a tone of pitying wonder.
Sonia groaned.
“You mustn’t stop here,” said the Duke in an uneasy tone, and he looked uneasily at the door.
“Ah, you don’t want to speak to me any more,” said Sonia, in a heartrending tone, wringing her hands.
“Guerchard is suspicious of everything. It is dangerous for us to be talking here. I assure you that it’s dangerous,” said the Duke.
“What an opinion must you have of me! It’s dreadful—cruel!” wailed Sonia.
“For goodness’ sake don’t speak so loud,” said the Duke, with even greater uneasiness. “You must think of Guerchard.”
“What do I care?” cried Sonia. “I’ve lost the liking of the only creature whose liking I wanted. What does anything else matter? What does it matter?”
“We’ll talk somewhere else presently. That’ll be far safer,” said the Duke.
“No, no, we must talk now!” cried Sonia. “You must know.… I must tell… Oh, dear!… Oh, dear!… I don’t know how to tell you.… And then it is so unfair.… She…Germaine…she has everything,” she panted. “Yesterday, before me, you gave her that pendant…she smiled…she was proud of it.… I saw her pleasure.… Then I took it—I took it—I took it! And if I could, I’d take her fortune, too.… I hate her! Oh, how I hate her!”
“What!” said the Duke.
“Yes, I do…I hate her!” said Sonia; and her eyes, no longer gentle, glowed with the sombre resentment, the dull rage of the weak who turn on Fortune. Her gentle voice was harsh with rebellious wrath.
“You hate her?” said the Duke quickly.
“I should never have told you that.… But now I dare.… I dare speak out.… It’s you!… It’s you—” The avowal died on her lips. A burning flush crimsoned her cheeks and faded as quickly as it came: “I hate her!” she muttered.
“Sonia—” said the Duke gently.
“Oh! I know that it’s no excuse.… I know that you’re thinking ‘This is a very pretty story,
