it was late when dormer colville reached the quiet sea-coast village of royan on the evening of his return to the west. he did not seek mrs. st. pierre lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he was informed that she was away from home.

“madame has gone to paris,” the man said, who, with his wife, was left in charge of the empty house. “it was a sudden resolution, one must conclude,” he added, darkly, “but madame took no one into her confidence. she received news by post, which must have brought about this sudden decision.”

colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's affairs; many hazarded an opinion that, without the help of madame st. pierre lawrence, this rolling stone would have been bare enough. she had gone to paris for one of two reasons, he concluded. either she had expected him to return thither from london, and had gone to meet him with the intention of coming to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vast sum of money now in turner's hands awaiting further developments, or some hitch had occurred with respect to john turner himself.

dormer colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in the evening set out for paris.

he himself had not seen turner since that morning in the banker's office in the rue lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in a somewhat heated spirit. but, on reflection, colville, who had sought to reassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnation of gastronomy and mental density in the anglo-french clubs of paris, had come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcing a quarrel upon turner. it was impossible to bring home to him an accusation of complicity in an outrage which had been carried through with remarkable skill. and when it is impossible to force home an accusation, a wise man will hold his tongue.

colville could not prove that turner had known barebone to be in the carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter had been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person between colville and the window; which might, after all, have been due to stupidity. this, as a matter of fact, was mrs. st. pierre lawrence's theory on the subject. for that lady, resting cheerfully on the firm basis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly always confers on women, had laughed at turner all her life, and now proposed to continue that course of treatment.

“take my word,” she had assured colville, “he was only acting in his usual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brief fits of mental aberration. i am not afraid of him or anything that he can do. leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding loo barebone again.”

upon which advice colville had been content to act. he had a faith in mrs. st. pierre lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; and thought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for john turner it was his sprightly and capable client. for there are two ways of getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer than you are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. but the latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides must necessarily be shared with no confidant.

colville knew where to look for mrs. st. pierre lawrence in paris, where she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicing in a select royalist clientele on the place vendome. on arriving at the capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought had gone out a few minutes earlier. “but madame's maid,” the porter added, “is no doubt within.”

colville was conducted to mrs. st. pierre lawrence's room, and was hardly there before the lady's french maid came hurrying in with upraised hands.

“a just heaven has assuredly sent monsieur at this moment!” she exclaimed. “madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she was agitated—she, who is usually so calm. she would tell me nothing; but i know—i, who have done madame's hair these ten years! and there is only one thing that could cause her anxiety—except, of course, any mishap to monsieur; that would touch the heart—yes!”

“you are very kind, catherine,” said colville, with a laugh, “to think me so important. is that letter for me?” and he pointed to a note in the woman's hand.

“but—yes!” was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhat reluctantly. “there is only one thing, and that is money,” she concluded, watching him tear open the envelope.

“i am going to john turner's office,” mrs. st. pierre lawrence wrote. “if, by some lucky chance, you should pass through paris, and happen to call this morning, follow me to the rue lafayette. m. st. p. l.”

it was plain enough. colville reflected that mrs. st. pierre lawrence had heard of the success of his mission to england and the safe return to gemosac of loo barebone. for the moment, he could not think how the news could have reached her. she might have heard it from miriam liston; for their journey back to gemosac had occupied nearly a week. on learning the good news, mrs. st. pierre lawrence had promptly grasped the situation; for she was very quick in thought and deed. the money would be wanted at once. she had gone to turner's office to withdraw it in person.

dormer colville bought a flower in a shop in the rue de la paix, and had it affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of flora, who made it her business to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubt pleasing enough to the majority of her clients.

colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the rue lafayette. he was wondering whether mrs. st. pierre lawrence's maid had any grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress's heart. he was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who are gamblers at heart, he was superstitious. he had never dared to try his luck with mrs. st. pierre lawrence. she was so hard, so worldly, so infinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her own life, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortune had hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only to be faced when ruin awaited him.

she had only been a widow three years. she had never been a sentimental woman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to her that, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success, ask her outright to part with them. moreover, mrs. st. pierre lawrence knew all about dormer colville, as men say. which is only a saying; for no human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, nor one-tenth of what there is to know. mrs. st. pierre lawrence knew enough, at all events, colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise a schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing good and evil.

he had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in that world of french culture which digs and digs into human nature, without having heard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, women have no illusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold into the tortuous ways of love. but he was too practical a man to build up a false hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman's heart.

he bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders, without any definite design. it was a mere habit—the habit acquired by twenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and deferred hope—of leaving no stone unturned.

his cab wheeled into the rue lafayette, and the man drove more slowly, reading the numbers on the houses. then he stopped altogether, and turned round in his seat.

“citizen,” he said, “there is a great crowd at the house you named. it extends half across the street. i will go no further. it is not i who care about publicity.”

colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver's whip. the man had scarcely exaggerated. a number of people were waiting their turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes held the door. dormer colville paid his cabman and walked into that crowd, with a sinking heart.

“it is the great english banker,” explained an on-looker, even before he was asked, “who has failed.”

colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through a crowd—a useful accomplishment in paris at all times, where government is conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won and lost again, by the mob. he had that air of distinction which, if wielded good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. some, no doubt, recognised him as an englishman. one after another made way for him. persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass; for the busybody we have always with us.

in a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed his way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over their ledgers. the space on the hither side of the counter was crammed with men, who whispered impatiently together. if any one raised his voice, the clerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speaker with a mute surprise.

one after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter.

“voyons, monsieur!” they urged; “tell me this or inform me of that.”

but the clerk only smiled and shook his head.

“patience, monsieur,” he answered. “i cannot tell you yet. we are awaiting advices from london.”

“but when will you receive them?” inquired several, at once.

“it may be to-morrow. it may not be for several days.”

“but can one see mr. turner?” inquired one, more daring than the rest.

“he is engaged.”

colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known that he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. once more his air of the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool.

“mrs. st. pierre lawrence is with him, i know,” whispered colville. “i come by appointment to meet her here.”

he was shown in without further trouble, and found mrs. st. pierre lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair.

john turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow black tie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hair was ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore a shiny look. any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out into the street, might look as john turner looked.

“you have heard the news?” asked mrs. st. pierre lawrence, turning sharply in her chair and looking at colville with an expression of sudden relief. she carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were dry. she was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to manage human affairs. and even in these later days of their great advance, they have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them.

“i was told by one of the crowd,” replied colville, with a side smile full of sympathy for turner, “that the—er—bank had come to grief.”

“was just telling mrs. st. pierre lawrence,” said turner, imperturbably, “that it is too early in the day to throw up the sponge and cry out that all is lost.”

“all!” echoed colville, angrily. “but do you mean to say—why, surely, there is generally something left.”

turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middle joint of his thumb.

“but i must have the money!” cried mrs. st. pierre lawrence. “it is most important, and i must have it at once. i withdraw it all. see, i brought my cheque-book with me. and i know that there are over a hundred thousand pounds in my account. as well as that, you hold securities for two hundred and fifty thousand more—my whole fortune. the money is not yours: it is mine. i draw it all out, and i insist on having it.”

turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking.

“now, damn it all, turner!” said colville, in a voice suddenly hoarse; “hand it over, man.”

“i tell you it is gone,” was the answer.

“what? three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? then you are a rogue! you are a fraudulent trustee! i always thought you were a damned scoundrel, turner, and now i know it. i'll get you to the galleys for the rest of your life, i promise you that.”

“you will gain nothing by that,” returned the banker, staring at the date-card in front of him. “and you will lose any chance there is of recovering something from the wreck. mrs. st. pierre lawrence had better take the advice of her lawyer—in preference to yours.”

“then i am ruined!” said that lady, rising, with an air of resolution. she was brave, at all events.

“at the present moment, it looks like it,” admitted turner, without meeting her eye.

“what am i to do?” murmured mrs. st. pierre lawrence, looking helplessly round the room and finally at the banker's stolid face.

“like the rest of us, i suppose,” he admitted. “begin the world afresh. perhaps your friends will come forward.”

and he looked calmly toward colville. mrs. st. pierre lawrence's face suddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. turner rose, laboriously, and opened it.

“there is another staircase through this side door,” he said, opening a second door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. “you can avoid the crowd.”

they passed out together, and turner, having closed the door behind them, crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. he set his tie straight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, with a vague smile on his face.

colville took the vacant seat in mrs. st. pierre lawrence's brougham. she still held a handkerchief in her hand.

“i do not mind for myself,” she exclaimed, suddenly, when the carriage moved out of the court-yard. “it is only for your sake, dormer.”

she turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears.

“oh! don't you understand?” she asked, in a whisper. “don't you see, dormer?”

“a way out of it?” he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting her. he withdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew it sympathetically, almost tenderly. “see a way out of it?” he repeated, in a reflective and business-like voice. “no, i am afraid, for the moment, i don't.”

he sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while she looked out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. they drove back to her hotel without speaking.