"But I can't give you up--I can't." Then, with another of those sudden
changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: "I can't, I can't, O Master
of the Hounds!"

There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The
postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not
correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting,
tore open the envelope, and read:

Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug-
Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing,
with Zoug-Zoug's!

What fame you've got now--dompteuse, and the sweet scandal!

The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had
talked with the manager of the menagerie.

Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood
why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days in
Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination--vague, helpless
prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different
thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber.

In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair,
looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were
burning. He came and took her hands.

"What is it, Andree?" he said. "That letter, what is it?"