The driver was accustomed to people who suddenly decided to drive all the
way back to Paris from Lacville after an evening's successful or, for the
matter of that, unsuccessful play. He had been very much relieved to see
his two gentlemen come back from the châlet and to leave the gendarmes
behind. He had no wish to get mixed up in a _fracas_, no wish, that is,
to have any embarrassments with the police.

They drove on and on, into the open country; through dimly-lit, leafy
thoroughfares, through long stretches of market gardens, till they came
on to the outskirts of the great city--and still Sylvia remained
obstinately silent.

Paul de Virieu leant forward.

"Speak to her," he said in an urgent whisper. "Take her hand and try to
rouse her, Mr. Chester. I feel very anxious about her condition."

Chester in the darkness felt himself flushing. With a diffident, awkward
gesture he took Sylvia's hand in his--and then he uttered an exclamation
of surprise and concern.

The hand he held was quite cold--cold and nerveless to the touch, as
if all that constitutes life had gone out of it. "My dear girl!" he
exclaimed. "I'm afraid those people frightened you badly? I suppose you
began to suspect they meant to steal your pearls?"

But Sylvia still remained obstinately silent. She did not want to speak,
she only wanted to live.

It was so strange to feel oneself alive--alive and whole at a time when