said.

"In this crowd, of course, it is difficult, but--"

"We sha'n't find them."

"At any rate, Gaspare is with them."

"How do you know that?"

The expression in his face frightened her.

"But you said you were sure--"

"Panacci was too clever for us; he may have been too clever for
Gaspare."

Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she said:

"You surely don't think the Marchese is wicked?"

"He is young, he is Neapolitan, and to-night he is mad. Vere has made
him mad."

"But Vere was only gay at dinner as any child--"

"Don't think I am blaming Vere. If she has fascination, she cannot help
it."

"What shall we do?"

"Will you let me put you into a cab? Will you wait in my room at the
hotel until I come back with Vere? I can search for her better alone. I
will find her--if she is here."

Their eyes met steadily as he finished speaking, and he saw, or thought
he saw, in hers a creeping menace, as if she had the intention to attack
or to defy him.

"I am Vere's mother," she said.

"Let me take you to a cab, Hermione."

He spoke coldly, inexorably. This moment of enforced inactivity was a
very difficult one for him. And the violence that was blazing within him
made him fear that if Hermione did not yield to his wish he might lose
his self-control.

"You can do nothing," he added.

Her eyes left his, her lips quivered. Then she said:

"Take me, then."

She did not look at him again until she was in a cab and Artois had
told the driver to go to the Hotel Royal. Then she glanced at him with a
strange expression of acute self-consciousness which he had never before
seen on her face.

"You don't believe that--that there is any danger to Vere?" she said, in
a low voice. "You cannot believe that."

"I don't know."

She leaned forward, and her face changed.

"Go and bring her back to me."

The cabman drove off, and Artois was lost in the crowd.

He never knew how long his search lasted, how long he heard the swish
and the bang of rockets, the vehement music of the band, the cries
and laughter of the people, the sound of footsteps as if a world were
starting on some pilgrimage; how long he saw the dazzling avenues of
fire stretching away into the city's heart; how long he looked at the
faces of strangers, seeking Vere's face. He was excessively conscious of
almost everything except of time. It might have been two hours later,
or much less, when he felt a hand upon his arm, turned round, an