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“My purpose is revenge,” she cried with sudden vehemence, her face suddenly set and stern and her eyes bright. “Revenge for a cruel, cowardly crime, and wrongs as deep and bitter as ever weighed a woman to the earth and filled her heart with burning rage.”

“I beg you, mademoiselle, to say no more,” I protested.

“But I wish to tell you. I must, I must. It concerns the pampered villain who holds your confidence, Prince Kalkov, and”—she paused and looked at me, her face fevered with excitement and her eyes full of dread doubt, and then added in a low strenuous tone—“Prince Boris Lavalski.”

I had never heard the name, of course, and could not understand her intense agitation. She searched my face as if hungry for some sign of recognition, and seeing none, her own clouded and then paled.

“Prince Boris Lavalski,” I echoed.

“Oh, my God, my God, that it has come to this!” she cried in a passion of despair; and she hid her face in her hands, giving way to such uncontrollable emotion that my heart was wrung for her.