"I must; it is what I ought to do," falters Lauraine piteously. "I cannot leave him to die there alone uncared for. After all, he is my husband."
"You are right!" exclaims Lady Etwynde hurriedly. "But a thought strikes me. I—will go to Paris and see Keith Athelstone. You will let me, will you not, Cyril? Perhaps, after all, that fiend is lying."
Lauraine looks at her with unspeakable gratitude.
"Oh, if you would—if only you would!" she cries passionately.
"Certainly we will!" exclaims Colonel Carlisle. "Etwynde is quite right. And I do not see why we shouldn't all go as far as Paris together. We have two hours to spare. Time enough to get what we want—money and wraps. All the rest we can get in Paris."
So it is hurriedly arranged, and the night express sees them all en route for the French capital, the Colonel and his wife doing their best to console and cheer Lauraine, whose utter prostration and despair alarm them.
At Paris, Colonel Carlisle decides that she is really in no fit condition to travel alone; and having seen his wife fairly started for the address Lady Jean has given, he takes charge of Lauraine, and goes on with her to the Riviera. When the long, fatiguing journey is over, and they reach Monte Carlo, they find Sir Francis even worse than the telegram had led them to imagine. Lauraine will not hear of Colonel Carlisle staying with her any longer. The fever must take its course; there is nothing but careful nursing and watchfulness to be exercised, and so she sends him back to Paris, and takes up her station by the bedside of the man who has wronged and outraged her so often—whose fretful moans even now are all for that other woman.
The Soeur de Charité watching beside him looks up in surprise as the slight young figure and beautiful face bend over the unconscious man.
"It is madame—for whom he has been always asking?" she asks hesitatingly.
Lauraine looks gravely up.