"But you're mad. . . . Mad!" cried Guerchard.
"No, I'm not mad," said Bonavent.
"Gone! But who let her go?" cried Guerchard.
"The men at the door," said Bonavent.
"The men at the door," said Guerchard, in a tone of stupefaction. "But she had to have my permit . . . my permit on my card! Send the fools up to me!"
Bonavent went to the top of the staircase, and called down it. Guerchard followed him. Two detectives came hurrying up the stairs and into the drawing-room.
"What the devil do you mean by letting Mademoiselle Kritchnoff leave the house without my permit, written on my card?" cried Guerchard violently.
"But she had your permit, sir, and it was written on your card," stammered one of the detectives.
"It was? . . . it was?" said Guerchard. "Then, by Jove, it was a forgery!"
He stood thoughtful for a moment. Then quietly he told his two men to go back to their post. He did not stir for a minute or two, puzzling it out, seeking light.
Then he came back slowly into the drawing-
