Paul de Virieu turned in the kindly darkness, and putting his arm round
Sylvia's slender shoulders, he tenderly drew her to him.

A passion of pity, of protective tenderness, filled his heart, and
suddenly lifted him to a higher region than that in which he had hitherto
been content to dwell.

"You must not say that, _ma chérie_," he whispered, laying his cheek to
hers as tenderly as he would have caressed a child, "it would be too
cruel to the living, to those who love you--who adore you."

Then he raised his head, and, in a very different tone, he exclaimed,

"Do not be afraid, Mr. Chester, those infamous people shall not be
allowed to escape! Poor Madame Wolsky shall surely be avenged. But Mrs.
Bailey will not be asked to make any statement, except in writing--in
what you in England call an affidavit. You do not realise, although you
doubtless know, what our legal procedure is like. Not even in order to
secure the guillotine for Madame Wachner and her Fritz would I expose
Mrs. Bailey to the ordeal of our French witness-box."

"And how will it be possible to avoid it?" asked Chester, in a low voice.

Paul de Virieu hesitated, then, leaning forward and holding Sylvia still
more closely and protectively to him, he said very deliberately the
fateful words he had never thought to say,

"I have an announcement to make to you, Mr. Chester. It is one which I
trust will bring me your true congratulations. Mrs. Bailey is about to do
me the honour of becoming my wife."