ying
herself by inadvertence.

"But, my dear friend, why America?"

"You recall asking me to help you last night? Did I not promise to do
what I could? Well, I am not one to forget my promise. I know
something, monsieur."

"I believe you do!"

"You gave me credit for having some little influence in this world of
Paris. I have used it. What I have learned--I shall not tell you how,
specifically--enables me to assure you that the Montalais jewels are on
their way to America."

"And I am to believe you make this journey to help me regain them?"

"What do you think, then?"

"I do not know what to think, mademoiselle. I am overwhelmed--abashed
and humbled by contemplation of such generosity."

"You see, you do not know me, monsieur. But you shall know me better
before we are finished."

"One does not question that." Nor did one! "But if I am to sail for
America to-day--"

"To-morrow, from Cherbourg, at eight in the morning."

"Well, to-morrow, then: but how am I to get my passport vised?"

"I have seen to that. If you will look over your papers, monsieur, you
will see that you are no longer Paul Martin alias Andre Duchemin, but
Paul Delorme, my invalid brother, still suffering from honourable
wounds sustained in the Great War and ordered abroad for his health."

To this Lanyard, hastily verifying her statement by running an eye
through the passport, found nothing more appropriate than a wondering
"Mon dieu!"

"So you see, everything is arranged. What have you to say?"

"Only that mademoiselle sweeps one off one's feet."

"Do you complain about that? You no longer doubt my devotion, my
gratitude?"

"Do not believe me capable of such stupidity!"

"That is very well, then. Now I must run." Liane Delorme threw away her
cigarette and rose. "I have a thousand things to do.... And, you
understand, we leave as soon as you are dressed?"

"Perfectly. By what train?"

"By no train. Don't you know there is a strike to-day? What have you
been reading in those newspapers? It is necessary that we motor to
Cherbourg."

"That is no little journey, dear sister."

"Three hundred and seventy kilometres?" Liane Delorme held this
equivalent of two-hundred and thirty English miles in supreme contempt.
"We shall make it in eight hours. We leave at four at latest, possibly
earlier; at midnight we are in Cherbourg. You shall see."

"If I survive..."

"Have no fear. My chauffeur drives superbly."

She was at the door