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She remained some minutes in the stress of her whirlwind grief; most embarrassing minutes to me, for I knew not what to do or say, gladly as I would have said or done anything to soften her distress.

Suddenly she mastered her emotion, rose and faced me, her face worn, strained, and white to the very lips, which quivered.

“So be it, monsieur. You are still his enemy—and mine,” she said in low measured tones. “Still the defender of that cruel monstrous infamy. We are then to fight on.”

“I am utterly at a loss to understand you, mademoiselle. God knows I am no enemy of yours, and would only too gladly be your friend if——”

“That is impossible, monsieur,” she interposed angrily, with the air of an empress. “Shall M. Boreski return?”

“I have been waiting for him,” said I, still mystified.

“I sent him away that I might speak to you of this.” She touched the bell as she spoke, and I noticed that she pushed it twice.

“I did not know that you were his principal,” I said.

“There are many things you do not know yet: as many indeed as you seem quite unwilling to remember, or anxious to forget.” She was very bitter.