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He had risen with me and stood in indecision, when Helga interposed and took the lead in her own hands.

“You do not quite understand the position, I fear, monsieur,” she said slowly.

“Do you mean I am not free to go—after your promise to me?”

“Oh no, no,” she cried, with one of her smiles. “I myself will order your carriage.” She rang the bell, and when the servant came she told him to order a carriage at once.

“I was sure of you, mademoiselle, and regret my hasty suspicion. You will pardon it?”

“It was a natural inference—for one accustomed to treachery,” she replied, with soft sarcasm. “But we really are not traitors here. The way is open for you to leave—if you dare, monsieur?” And the challenge was in eyes, face, voice and manner alike.

“Dare? That is a strong word, mademoiselle.”

“Intentionally strong,” she retorted, with cutting deliberation. “Intentionally strong. I have been patient under injury, and have endured injustice, hoping, praying, and waiting for redress; living for the interview which I have had to-night—and had in vain. And now my patience is exhausted, and you have drained it to the dregs. Had there been a spark of just feeling left in your heart, a faint wan glimmer of desire to right the wrong done to mine and to me, and to wipe out the cruel stain of unmerited infamy, the name I mentioned to you to-night would have kindled the desire until, fanned by the remembrance of old and tried and dear friendship, it would have burned steadily with a bright avenging flame.” She spoke without passion in slow level accents.