Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies
between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alencon, and which is known as
Little Switzerland. Steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her
pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her
destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong,
though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted
in her indignation against Prince Renine. She bore him a grudge not only
for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his
behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his
assurance, his air of excessive politeness.

She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full
of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a
chateau and a few windows with closed shutters. This was the Domaine de
Halingre.

She followed the wall and turned a corner. In the middle of the
crescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, Serge Renine
stood waiting beside his horse.

She sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking
her for coming, she cried:

"One word, monsieur, to begin with. Something quite inexplicable happened
just now. Three shots were fired at a motor-car in which I was sitting. Did
you fire those shots?"

"Yes."