yard, her heart
heavy with anxiety. Too late! About a quarter of an hour afterward
her emissaries returned. They had made all possible haste in contrary
directions, but they had seen no one in the street who at all resembled
the person they were looking for. They had questioned the shopkeepers,
but no one had seen him pass. "It doesn't matter," faltered Madame
d'Argeles, in a tone that belied her words. And, anxious to escape
the evident curiosity of her servants, she hastened back to the little
boudoir where she usually spent her mornings.

M. Fortunat had left his card--that is to say, his address--and it
would have been an easy matter to send a servant to his house. She was
strongly tempted to do so; but she ultimately decided that it would
be better to wait--that an hour more or less would make but little
difference. She had sent her trusty servant, Job, for Baron Trigault; he
would probably return with the baron at any moment; and the baron would
advise her. He would know at once what was the best course for her to
pursue. And so she waited for his coming in breathless anxiety; and the
more she reflected, the more imminent her peril seemed, for she realized
that M. Fortunat must be a very dangerous and cunning man. He had set a
trap for her, and she had allowed herself to be caught. Perhaps he had
only suspected the truth when he presented himself at the house. He had
suddenly announced the death of the Count de Chalusse; she had betrayed
herself; and any doubts he might have entertained were dispelled. "If I
had only had sufficient presence of mind to deny it," she murmured.
"If I had only been courageous enough to reply that I knew absolutely
nothing about the person he spoke of. Ah! then he would have gone away
convinced that he was mistaken."

But would the smooth-spoken visitor have declared that he knew
everything, if he had not really penetrated the mystery of her life? It
was scarcely probable. He had implored her to accept the property, if
not for her own sake at least for the sake of another. And when she
asked him whom he meant he had answered, "Mademoiselle Marguerite,"
but he was undoubtedly thinking of Wilkie. So this man, this Isidore
Fortunat, knew that she had a son. Perhaps he was even acquainted with
him personally. In his anger he would very likely hasten to Wilkie's
rooms and tell him everything. This thought filled the wretched woman's
heart with despair. What! Had she not yet expiated her fa