"The scoundrel!" cried Olga. She had arisen, and come close to
Tarzan, where she stood looking up into his face. She was very
frightened. In her eyes was an expression that the hunter sees in
those of a poor, terrified doe--puzzled--questioning. She trembled,
and to steady herself raised her hands to his broad shoulders. "What
shall we do, Jean?" she whispered. "It is terrible. Tomorrow all
Paris will read of it--he will see to that."

Her look, her attitude, her words were eloquent of the age-old
appeal of defenseless woman to her natural protector--man. Tarzan
took one of the warm little hands that lay on his breast in his own
strong one. The act was quite involuntary, and almost equally so
was the instinct of protection that threw a sheltering arm around
the girl's shoulders.

The result was electrical. Never before had he been so close
to her. In startled guilt they looked suddenly into each other's
eyes, and where Olga de Coude should have been strong she was weak,
for she crept closer into the man's arms, and clasped her own about
his neck. And Tarzan of the Apes? He took the panting figure into
his mighty arms, and covered the hot lips with kisses.

Raoul de Coude made hurried excuses to his host after he had read
the note handed him by the ambassador's butler. Never afterward
could he recall the nature of the excuses he made. Everything was
quite a blur to him up to the time that he stood on the threshold
of his own home. Then he became very cool, moving quietly and with
caution. For some inexplicable reason Jacques had the door open
before he was halfway to the steps. It did not strike him at the
time as being unusual, though afterward he remarked it.