For a moment, Raoul could only think that the Phantom was, at last, actually a ghost, somehow come to haunt Christine in this dark, shabby place. How would he save her from a spirit? But then he noticed the changes—different hair, ink stains on his hand, the end of the quill trembling a little. Again, this man. His enemy.

"You!"

The Phantom just stood there, his stillness as eerie as it had always been, and Raoul's rage rose up in him, clouding the edges of his vision, that yet again he should be stymied by this thing.

"Where is she?"

Damn it all, he was as maddening as ever.

"I can't imagine what you mean."

Raoul snapped—he threw himself at the Phantom with a growl. The bastard moved like a thief, and Raoul ran hard into the tall desk under the window. Could there possibly be traps even in this little room? He could believe anything of this man. If only he had killed him in the cemetery, would she not have left? That she would return to this monster must be impossible. It must. He turned to the Phantom, his breath ragged in his throat.

"Where is Christine? I know she's here."

That damned sneer. That damned, arrogant sneer.

"Indeed, sir, you are mistaken."

Raoul had no sword, no pistol, not even a knife in his boot, or this man would not live out the day.

"I swear to God—if you have hurt her—"

Really, his speed was unnerving. Raoul hardly blinked before he was leaning back against the desk, trying to escape the fierce blue eyes just inches from his own.

"I would never harm her."

Then, uncannily, he retreated again, just out of arm's reach. Raoul was twitching with shock and rage.

"Why does it always come down to you?" he whispered, then cursed himself for sounding like an idiot.

She was here—she had to be here. He had seen the address in her own hand, though he could not understand why she would have left without telling him. His parents said nothing—even Aunt Adelaide had done nothing but cry, and by the time he discovered it, she had been gone nearly two weeks. He cursed his own idiocy for assuming that the mails were late. Old Aunt Adelaide, who seemed so harmless, in collusion with them all. Even the damn cook, though at least he had been able to finally threaten her into giving up this address. He had seen the letter, the mention of the Girys. She must be here. Nothing of this answered the real question—why did she leave him? After all they had been through, after all he had done for her, and she just took it away. Why?

He had such dreams for their life together, his beautiful Christine and himself. She would be the toast of all society, and he would forever keep her safe from all darkness, from all harm. Even when they were children, he had protected her. She needed protecting—her heart was too kind. She had too much sympathy for the villain standing before him. He could do it, but not if she refused him at every turn. Father's terrible silence and Mother trying to pat his arm. How long had it been going on, this conspiracy among them? That blasted business of working all the time was surely part of it. They had been so happy. He thought they had been so happy. That they would be married. That they would live together always in the light: himself, his Christine, and all the children they would have, each as beautiful as she. Hadn't they been happy?

Raoul took a great, shuddering breath. He would be damned before he broke down in front of those predatory eyes, now watching him too keenly. That monstrous face always seemed to know too much. He took strength from revulsion, from bitterness—it cleared his mind like cold air. This man was more than his enemy. He was a fugitive with a price on his head. By God, the Phantom would not have his Christine.

"You can stare all you like," he said, "all the way to the guillotine."

Raoul ran for the gendarmes.