but have observed it. 'Am
I? You said just now that I might be a Yankee girl, but I was a fool.
Well, I am a Yankee girl, as you call it; and in my country, if they
don't teach revolver-shooting in boarding-schools, there are at least
a lot of girls who can handle a revolver. I happen to be one of them. I
tell you that if you ring that bell you will suffer.'

Most of this was simple bluff on Nella's part, and she trembled lest
Miss Spencer should perceive that it was simple bluff. Happily for her,
Miss Spencer belonged to that order of women who have every sort of
courage except physical courage. Miss Spencer could have withstood
successfully any moral trial, but persuade her that her skin was in
danger, and she would succumb. Nella at once divined this useful fact,
and proceeded accordingly, hiding the strangeness of her own sensations
as well as she could.

'You had better sit down now,' said Nella, 'and I will ask you a few
questions.'

And Miss Spencer obediently sat down, rather white, and trying to screw
her lips into a formal smile.

'Why did you leave the Grand Babylon that night?' Nella began her
examination, putting on a stern, barrister-like expression.

'I had orders to, Miss Racksole.'

'Whose orders?'

'Well, I'm--I'm--the fact is, I'm a married woman, and it was my
husband's orders.'

'Who is your husband? 'Tom Jackson--Jules, you know, head waiter at the
Grand Babylon.'

'So Jules's real name is Tom Jackson? Why did he want you to leave
without giving notice?'

'I'm sure I don't know, Miss Racksole. I swear I don't know. He's my
husband, and, of course, I do what he tells me, as you will some day do
what your husband tells you. Please heaven you'll get a better husband
than mine!'

Miss Spencer showed a sign of tears.

Nella fingered the revolver, and put it at full cock. 'Well,' she
repeated, 'why did he want you to leave?' She was tremendously surprised
at her own coolness, and somewhat pleased with it, too.

'I can't tell you, I can't tell you.'

'You've just got to,' Nella said, in a terrible, remorseless tone.

'He--he wished me to come over here to Ostend. Something had gone wrong.

Oh! he's a fearful man, is Tom. If I told you, he'd--'

'Had something gone wrong in the hotel, or over here?'

'Both.'

'Was it about Prince Eugen of Posen?'

'I don't know--that is, yes, I think so.'

'What has your husband to do with Prince Eugen?'

'I believe he has some--some sort of