ed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. "Yes; I refuse to
betray my husband--"

"Stop! He is not your husband!"

Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Her
fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the
fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of
her majestic stature.

"What do you mean?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"

"Sydney Bamborough is your husband," said the Frenchman, without taking
his dull eyes from her face.

"He is dead!" she hissed.

"Prove it!"

He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose of
easy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion of
their interview.

"Prove it, madame!" he said again.

"He died at Tver," she said; but there was no conviction in her voice.
With her title and position to hold to, she could face the world.
Without these, what was she?

"A local newspaper reports that the body of a man was discovered on the
plains of Tver and duly buried in the pauper cemetery," said De
Chauxville indifferently. "Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, I mean--was,
for reasons which need not be gone into here, in the neighborhood of
Tver at the time. A police officer, who has since been transferred to
Odessa, was of the opinion that the dead man was a foreigner. There are
about twelve thousand foreigners in Tver--operatives in the
manufactories. Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu--left Tver
to proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to avoid the
emissaries of the Charity League, who were looking out for him at the
western frontier. He will be due at one of the treaty ports in China in
about a month. Upon the supposition that the body discovered on the
plains of Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity of
becoming a princess. It was enterprising. I admire your spirit. But it
was dangerous. I, madame, can suppress Sydney Bamborough when he turns
up. I have two arrows in my quiver for him; one is the Charity League,
the other the Russian Government, who want him. Your husband--I beg your
pardon, the prince--would perhaps take a different view of the case. It
is a pretty story. I will tell it to him unless I have your implicit
obedience."

Etta stood dry-lipped before him. She tried to speak, but no words came
from her lips.

De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knew
that he loved her. There is no defi