“That power of fascination which some men exercise on women is one of those mysteries which science should investigate before it does anything else,” said the Duke, in a reflective tone. “Now I come to think of it, I had much better have spent my time on that investigation than on that tedious journey to the South Pole. All the same, I’m deucedly sorry for that woman, Victoire. She looks such a good soul.”
Guerchard shrugged his shoulders: “The prisons are full of good souls,” he said, with cynical wisdom born of experience. “They get caught so much more often than the bad.”
“It seems rather mean of Lupin to make use of women like this, and get them into trouble,” said the Duke.
“But he doesn’t,” said Guerchard quickly. “At least he hasn’t up to now. This Victoire is the first we’ve caught. I look on it as a good omen.”
He walked across the room, picked up his cloak, and took a card-case from the inner pocket of it. “If you don’t mind, your Grace, I want you to show this permit to my men who are keeping the door, whenever you go out of the house. It’s just a formality; but I attach considerable importance to it, for I really ought not to make exceptions in favour of any one. I have two men at the door, and they have orders to let nobody out without my written permission. Of course M. Gournay-Martin’s guests are different. Bonavent has orders to pass them out. And, if your Grace doesn’t mind, it will help me. If you carry a permit, no one else will dream of complaining of having to do so.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, if it’s of any help to you,” said the Duke cheerfully.
“Thank you,” said Guerchard. And he wrote on his card and handed it to the Duke.
The Duke took it and looked at it. On it was written:
“Pass the Duke of Charmerace.”
“J. GUERCHARD.”
“It’s quite military,” said the Duke, putting the card into his waistcoat pocket.