"Delora!" he exclaimed. "That is my name! I am Ferdinand Delora! My brother Maurice was here a moment ago. You are Signor Vanhallon, are you not?" he continued. "You must remember me!"
The ambassador grasped him by the hand.
"My dear Delora," he said, "of course I do! What has been the meaning of all this mystery?"
Lamartine stepped quickly forward.
"Can't you see what it all means?" he exclaimed. "Ferdinand Delora here arrives in Paris on a secret mission to England. There, through some reason or through some cause,—who knows?—he falls ill. There comes to London Maurice Delora with some papers, playing his part. Maurice Delora was here a moment ago. His game is up and he is evidently gone. The one thing to be feared is that we are too late!"
The ambassador turned swiftly to the new Delora, who was looking from one to the other with the pained, half-vacant expression of a child.
"Delora," he exclaimed, "how comes it that you have let your brother intervene? Did you not understand how secret your mission was to be?—how important?"
The man shook his head slowly.
"I am sorry," he said, "I have been ill. I know nothing. There was an accident in Paris. I have no papers any longer. Maurice has them all."
My lady of the turquoises plunged into the conversation.