“At whose hands lies the peril?”
“At the hands of the same band which killed General de Trémont. My father has been informed of these intrigues. Act without losing a moment.”
“But what can we do?” exclaimed Uncle Graff, carried away by the young lady’s eagerness.
“I will explain to you. Wait a moment.”
Passing her hand over her forehead, she said in piteous accents—
“Yes, that was it. A woman he knew at Ars.”
“The Italian?”
“Yes, doubtless. He loved her, and they knew he would be pleased to see her again.”
She paused. The pallor of her face increased. What she was relating seemed to torture her.
“So they wrote to him to fix a rendezvous. And they are expecting him this very evening, in a solitary out-of-the-way house. But he will not find the one he expects to meet, but, instead, a band of villains, determined to employ the most violent measures to force him to reveal a secret that they cannot fathom. Now do you understand?”