t he should have had the heart to ask such a
thing of me. But--it "meant more than his life." And I would do the
thing, if it could be done, because of my pride.

As I drove away from the prison a kind of fury grew in me and possessed
me. I felt as if I had fire instead of blood in my veins. If I had known
that death, or worse than death, waited for me in the ghastly house to
which Ivor had sent me, I would still have gone there.

My first thought was to go instantly, and get it over--with success or
failure. But calmer thoughts prevailed.

I hadn't looked at the papers yet. My only knowledge of last night's
dreadful happenings had come from Uncle Eric and Lord Robert West. I had
said to myself that I didn't wish to read the newspaper accounts of the
murder, and of Ivor's supposed part in it. I remembered now, however,
that I did not even know in what part of Paris the house of the murder
was. I recalled only the name of the street, because it was a curiously
grim one--like the tragedy that had been acted in it.

I couldn't tell the chaffeur to drive me to the street and house. That
would be a stupid thing to do. I must search the papers, and find out
from them something about the neighbourhood, for there would surely be
plenty of details of that sort. And I must do this without first going
back to the hotel, as it might be very difficult to get away again, once
I was there. Now, nobody knew where I was, and I was free to do as I
pleased, no matter what the consequences might be afterwards.

Passing a Duval restaurant, I suddenly ordered my motor-cab to stop.
Having paid, and sent it away, I went upstairs and asked for a cup of
chocolate at one of the little, deadly respectable-looking marble
tables. Also I asked to see an evening paper.

It was a shock to find Ivor's photograph, horribly reproduced, gazing at
me from the front page. The photograph was an old one, which had been a
good deal shown in shop windows, much to Ivor's disgust, at about the
time when he returned from his great expedition and published his really
wonderful book. I had seen it before I met him, and as it must have been
on sale in Paris as well as London, it had been easy enough for the
newspaper people to get it. Then there came the story of the murder,
built up dramatically. Hating it, sickened by it, I yet read it all. I
knew where to go to find the house, and I knew that the murder had been
committed in a back room on the top floor. Also