il
morning."

The other was breathing hard. His eyes were like fiery gimlets.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" he begged, half-sobbing. "Can't you
at least give her something so she'll recover consciousness? I must talk
to her--"

"That I can do."

The physician turned back to the bed. Raised the dying girl's head from
the pallet to administer doses of several medicines.

"I have done all I can," he said. "From here it is in the hands of _Le
Bon Dieu_."

Dazedly, Mark thanked him. Paid him with coins from Jacques Rombeau's
wallet.

The door to the room beyond opened on sagging hinges and Gustav Jerbette
stepped out. His eyes still were red-rimmed from drink, but otherwise he
appeared sober.

"It's done," he said in a disgusted tone. "Lord knows it looks like
nothing in this world or the next, but it's done."

Again Mark dealt out coins.

The old peasant entered the room.

"The baron is furious," he reported grimly. "They are searching every
hut and hovel--"

The doctor shifted his feet nervously.

"Since there is nothing more I can do--" he murmured.

Mark seemed to shake off the strange, dream-like lassitude that gripped
him.

"Of course, gentlemen. All of you have done your best. But there isn't
any need of your staying longer, imperiling your lives by the chances of
Baron Morriere's vengeance. Please leave--and my thanks go with you."

Out they marched, a weird procession: painter, doctor, peasant. Only the
old man hesitated at the door.

"God be with you, friend!" he whispered, and pulled the heavy portal
shut behind him.

Like a man in a trance, Mark watched them go. His feet were spread
apart; fists clenched. Nor did the Sphinx at Giza look out upon the
world with a face more grey or stony or implacable than was his.

"History!" he cried aloud, and his voice was half-hysterical. "Damn
history! I'll beat it yet! Those devils shan't have Elaine--"

"Jacques!"

It was Elaine. Wanly she looked up from the pallet where she lay. Tried
to force a smile.

Mark dropped to his knees beside her.

"Elaine! My darling!"

The girl raised a hand that trembled. Caressed his forehead.

"Poor Jacques!" she whispered. "He looks so worried; so frightened--"

"And good cause he has, too!"

* * * * *

Mark whirled, every muscle taut, at that harsh voice.

There, in the doorway, backed by his guardsmen, stood the Baron
Morriere!

Tension hung over the silence of