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He fidgetted with his handkerchief, and then making a great effort for self-possession he put it away and answered, with a spice of doggedness.

“I have named my terms and they have been agreed to.”

“As you will. But of course you understand that without that condonation—or pardon—even one so highly placed as the husband of the Duchess Stephanie may be called upon to answer for his acts.”

I waited to give him a last chance, and during the silence he was obviously embarrassed.

“You make grave accusations very lightly, M. Denver,” said Helga, coming to the rescue again.

“Do you think we cannot prove them, mademoiselle?” I asked looking her straight in the face. The man’s manner made me very sure. But she could act much better than he: women can as a rule. Her steady look changed to a winning smile.

“What do men do in America, monsieur, when they are so fortunate as to discover a mare’s nest?”

“They console themselves if they find in it a woman’s smile, mademoiselle,” I replied lightly, “or take her assurance that it is nothing more serious.”