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She leapt from her seat. The key had turned in the lock. The count was coming, attracted by her cries. Yvonne glanced round for a weapon with which to defend herself. But the door was pushed back quickly and, astounded, as though the sight that presented itself before her eyes seemed to her the most inexplicable prodigy, she stammered:

“You!… You!…”

A man was walking up to her, in dress-clothes, with his opera-hat and cape under his arm, and this man, young, slender and elegant, she had recognized as Horace Velmont.

“You!” she repeated.

He said, with a bow:

“I beg your pardon, madame, but I did not receive your letter until very late.”

“Is it possible? Is it possible that this is you … that you were able to …?”

He seemed greatly surprised:

“Did I not promise to come in answer to your call?”

“Yes … but …”

“Well, here I am,” he said, with a smile.

He examined the strips of canvas from which Yvonne had succeeded in freeing herself and nodded his head, while continuing his inspection:

“So those are the means employed? The Comte d’Origny, I presume?… I also saw that he locked you in…. But then the pneumatic letter?… Ah, through the window!… How careless of you not to close it!”