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She sobbed:

“I’m frightened…. I’m frightened … this ring burns me…. Break it…. Take it away…. Don’t let him find it!”

“And if it is not found on your finger, who will have broken it? Again an accomplice…. No, you must face the music … and face it boldly, for I answer for everything…. Believe me … I answer for everything…. If I have to tackle the Comtesse d’Origny bodily and thus delay the interview…. If I had to come myself before noon … it is the real wedding-ring that shall be taken from your finger—that I swear!—and your son shall be restored to you.”

Swayed and subdued, Yvonne instinctively held out her hands to the bonds. When he stood up, she was bound as she had been before.

He looked round the room to make sure that no trace of his visit remained. Then he stooped over the countess again and whispered:

“Think of your son and, whatever happens, fear nothing…. I am watching over you.”

She heard him open and shut the door of the boudoir and, a few minutes later, the hall-door.

At half-past three, a motor-cab drew up. The door downstairs was slammed again; and, almost immediately after, Yvonne saw her husband hurry in, with a furious look in his eyes. He ran up to her, felt to see if she was still fastened and, snatching her hand, examined the ring. Yvonne fainted….