“Talking to me in the drawing-room!” exclaimed Guerchard.
“Yes,” said Bonavent. “She came out and went straight down the stairs and out of the house.”
A faint, sighing gasp came from Guerchard’s lips. He dashed into the drawing-room, crossed the room quickly to his cloak, picked it up, took the card-case out of the pocket, and counted the cards in it. Then he looked at the Duke.
The Duke smiled at him, a charming smile, almost caressing.
There seemed to be a lump in Guerchard’s throat; he swallowed it loudly.
He put the card-case into the breast-pocket of the coat he was wearing. Then he cried sharply, “Bonavent! Bonavent!”
Bonavent opened the door, and stood in the doorway.
“You sent off Victoire in the prison-van, I suppose,” said Guerchard.
“Oh, a long while ago, sir,” said Bonavent.
“The van had been waiting at the door since half-past nine.”