"There," he said, with a sigh of relief, "I think they are all there."
But even as he spoke he knew well enough that some of the pearls--perhaps
five or six--had found their way up his wife's capacious sleeve.
And then, quite suddenly, Madame Wachner uttered a hoarse exclamation of
terror. One of the gendarmes had climbed up on to the window-sill, and
was now half into the room. She waddled quickly across to the door, only
to find another gendarme in the hall.
Sylvia's eyes glistened, and a sensation which had hitherto been quite
unknown to her took possession of her, soul and body. She longed for
revenge--revenge, not for herself so much as for her murdered friend. She
clutched Paul by the arm. "They killed Anna Wolsky," she whispered. "She
is lying buried in the wood, where they meant to put me if you had not
come just--only just--in time!"
Paul de Virieu took Sylvia's hat off the dining-room table, and placed it
in her hand, closing her fingers over the brim. With a mechanical gesture
she raised her arms and put it on her head. Then he ceremoniously offered
her his arm, and led her out of the dining-room into the hall.
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