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“Not yours only, your honour, not yours only; but mademoiselle and M. Boreski’s also.”

“Mademoiselle’s?” I cried with a start. “How and why?”

“I crave your—your honour’s pardon, but I may not speak of my mistress’s affairs.”

“I am her friend as staunchly as you can be, Ivan; and if you can tell me anything without speaking of her private affairs, do so.”

He thought for a while.

“It is only what I myself fear.”

“Then you can surely tell me,” I said eagerly.

“If your—your honour had been what I thought, and not an American only, Vastic’s anger and that of those with him would have fallen on mademoiselle herself.”

“Why?”

“It is so plain, your honour. He would have held it such treachery for—for such a one to have been at the villa and to have left it unharmed.”

“My God!” I cried as the light burst upon me. “You mean they would condemn the mademoiselle and M. Boreski for not having taken my life when apparently they had the chance?”

“Your honour can surely see that clearly.”

As the full danger and possible horror of the thing rushed upon me, I dashed my heels into my horse.