of the infection. I think that I would sooner go out of life as I lie
here, cold and unloved, than have him come to me unwillingly."

The woman could not hide her tears any longer. There was something so
exquisitely fragile, so strangely pathetic, in that prostrate figure by
her side.

"But, my dear," she faltered,--

"Madame," the girl interrupted, "hold my hand for a moment. That is the
doctor coming. I hear his footstep. I think that I must sleep."

Madame Christophor--she had another name, but there were few occasions
on which she cared to use it--was driven back to Paris, in accordance
with her murmured word of instruction, at a pace which took little heed
of police regulations or even of safety. Through the peaceful lanes,
across the hills into the suburbs, and into the city itself she passed,
at a speed which was scarcely slackened even when she turned into the
Boulevard which was her destination. Glancing at the slip of paper
which she held in her hand, she pulled the checkstring before a tall
block of buildings. She hurried inside, ascended two flights of stairs,
and rang the bell of a door immediately opposite her. A very
German-looking manservant opened it after the briefest of delays--a man
with fair moustache, fat, stolid face and inquisitive eyes.

"Is your master in," she demanded, "Monsieur Estermen?"

The man stared at her, then bowed. The appearance of Madame Christophor
was, without doubt, impressive.