Presently, as the servant ushered her into the presence of George Fournel, even the paleness was warmed a little by the excitement of the moment.
Fournel was standing with his back to the door, looking out into the moonlit night.

As she entered he quickly drew the curtains of the windows and turned towards his visitor, a curious, hard, disdainful look in his face.

In his hands he held a paper which she knew only too well.
"Madame," he said, and bowed.

Then he motioned her to a chair.

He took one himself and sat down beside the great oak writing-desk and waited for her to speak--waited with a look which sent the blood from her heart to colour her cheeks and forehead.
She did not speak, however, but looked at him fearlessly.