"Élisabeth!" he cried, wild with delight.
But he stopped, with his arms outstretched. In the dark, the woman's figure did not seem to him to be Élisabeth's, but a taller and broader figure. He blurted out, in a tone of infinite anguish:
"Élisabeth . . . is it you? . . . Is it really you? . . ."
And at the same time he intuitively knew the answer which he was about to hear:
"No," said the woman, "Mme. Delroze started a little before us, in another motor. Karl and I were to join her."
Paul remembered that car, of which he and Bernard had thought that he heard the sound when going round the villa. As the two starts had taken place with an interval of a few minutes at most between them, he cried:
"Let us be quick then and lose no time. . . . By putting on speed, we shall be sure to catch them. . . ."
"It's impossible, because the two cars have taken different roads."
"What does that matter, if they lead to the same point. Where are they taking Mme. Delroze?"
"To a castle belonging to the Comtesse Hermine."
"You don't know? But this is terrible! At least, you know its name.
In the terrible state of distress into which those last words threw him, Paul felt the need of some immediate action, even as he had done at the sight of the banquet given by Prince Conrad. Certainly, all hope was lost. His plan, which was to use the tunnel before the alarm was raised, his plan was shattered. Granting that he succeeded in finding Élisabeth and delivering her, a very unlikely contingency, at what moment would this take place? And how was he afterwards to escape the enemy and return to France?
No, henceforward space and time were both against him. His defeat was such that there was nothing for it but to resign himself and await the final blow.
And yet he did not flinch. He saw that any weakness would be irreparable. The impulse that had carried him so far must be continued unchecked and with more vigor than ever.
He walked up to the spy. The woman was stooping over the body and examining it by the light of one of the lamps which she had taken down.
"Yes, he's dead. Two bullets hit him in the back." And she murmured, in a broken voice, "It's horrible, what I've done. I've killed him myself! But it's not a murder, sir, is it? And I had the right to, hadn't I? . . . But it's horrible all the same . . . I've killed Karl!"