e. If you agree
you will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannot
find me there. Nobody ever sees me again."

There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.

Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down
the room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt was
profound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.

His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even as
he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail
again. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing
this note in the hands of the police ... and he knew that he should
be at Victoria Station at six o'clock.

He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to
a series of crimes--for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had
thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet the
only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that
this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighed
against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous
criminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Max
was correct, "The Scorpion" had at least six successful murders to
his credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (Stuart's) life and
that of "Le Balafre", upon the life of Gaston Max.

It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called "The Scorpion"
with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from
justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding
difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!

Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a
clock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself was
contemptible.

Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out--and seeing a little cluster
of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he plucked
one and set it in his button-hole!

A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced
sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood
of the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walked
around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the
waiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the
hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid
touch upon his shoulder.

He turned--and she was standing by his side!

She was Parisian from head to foot, simply bu