ll them into carelessness with a
false sense of security."

A wrinkle appeared between the woman's eyebrows. "How do you propose to
accomplish that?" she asked in a voice that betrayed ready antagonism
to what her intuition foresaw.

"Very simply. They hoped to shift suspicion on to my shoulders. Well,
let them believe they have done so."

The waiting hostility developed in a sharp negative: "Ah, no!"

"But yes," Lanyard insisted. "It's so simple. Nobody here knows as yet
that your jewels have been stolen, only you and I. Very well: you will
not discover your loss and announce it till to-morrow morning. By that
time Andre Duchemin will have disappeared mysteriously. The room to
which he will retire to-night will be found vacant in the morning, his
bed unslept in. Obviously the scoundrel would not fly the chateau
between two suns without a motive. Inform the police of the fact and
let them draw their own conclusions: before evening all France will
know that Andre Duchemin is suspected of stealing the Montalais jewels,
and is a fugitive from justice."

"No, monsieur," the woman iterated decidedly.

"You will observe," he continued, lightly persuasive, "it is Andre
Duchemin who will be accused, madame, not Michael Lanyard, never the
Lone Wolf! The heart of man is in truth a dark forest, and vanity the
only light to guide us through its mazes. I confess I am jealous of my
reputation as a reformed character. But Andre Duchemin is merely a
name, a nom de guerre; you may saddle him with all the crimes in the
calendar if you like, and welcome. For when I say he will disappear
to-night, I mean it quite literally: Andre Duchemin will nevermore be
heard of in this world."

She had a smile quivering on her lips, yet shook her head.

"Monsieur forgets I learned to know him under the name of Duchemin."

"Ah, madame! do not make me think too kindly of the poor fellow; for
whether we like it or not, he is doomed. And if madame, in her charity,
means to continue to know me, it must be Michael Lanyard whom she
suffers to claim a little portion of her friendship."

Her smile grew wistful, with a tenderness he had the grace not to
recognise. Abashed, incredulous, he turned aside his gaze. Then without
warning he found her hand at rest in his. "More than a little,
monsieur, more than a little friendship only!"

He closed the hand in both his own.

"Then be kind to me, madame, be still more kind; give me this chance to
find an