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“At that moment, yes.”

“But afterward?”

“His man, Bernard, joined him near the door and I heard them talking about a working jeweller….”

“Is that all?”

“And about something that was to happen the next day, that is, to-day, at twelve o’clock, because the Comtesse d’Origny could not come earlier.”

Velmont reflected:

“Has that conversation any meaning that throws a light upon your husband’s plans?”

“I don’t see any.”

“Where are your jewels?”

“My husband has sold them all.”

“You have nothing at all left?”

“No.”

“Not even a ring?”

“No,” she said, showing her hands, “none except this.”

“Which is your wedding-ring?”

“Which is my … wedding—…”

She stopped, nonplussed. Velmont saw her flush as she stammered:

“Could it be possible?… But no … no … he doesn’t know….”

Velmont at once pressed her with questions and Yvonne stood silent, motionless, anxious-faced. At last, she replied, in a low voice:

“This is not my wedding-ring. One day, long ago, it dropped from the mantelpiece in my bedroom, where I had put it a minute before and, hunt for it as I might, I could not find it again. So I ordered another, without saying anything about it … and this is the one, on my hand….”