ngle with the scorn which she felt? Swiftly her
thoughts had flown back to that Sunday evening--a very few days
ago--when the course of her destiny was so suddenly changed once more,
when her marriage with a man whom she could never love was broken off,
when the possibilities once more rose upon the horizon of her life, of a
renewed existence of poverty and exile in the wake of a dispossessed
king.

That same evening a man whom she had hardly noticed before--a man
neither of her own nationality nor of her own caste--this same
Englishman, Clyffurde, had entered into her life--not violently or
aggressively, but just with a few words of intense sympathy and with a
genuine offer of friendship; and she somehow, despite much kindness
which encompassed her always, had felt cheered and warmed by his words,
and a strange and sweet sense of security against hurt and sorrow had
entered her heart as she listened to them.

And now she knew that all that was false--false his sympathy, false his
offers of friendship--his words were false, his hand-grasp false.
Treachery lurked behind that kindly look in his eyes, and falsehood
beneath his smile.

"He was nothing better than a spy!" The sting of that thought hurt her
more than she could have thought possible. She had so few real friends
and this one had proved a sham. Had she been alone she would have given
way to tears, but before Maurice or even her aunt she was ashamed of her
grief, ashamed of her feelings and of her thoughts. There was a great
deal yet that she wished to know, but somehow the words choked her when
she wanted to ask further questions. Fortunately Mme. la Duchesse was
taking Maurice thoroughly to task. She asked innumerable questions, and
would not spare him the relation of a single detail.

"Tell us all about it from the beginning, Maurice," she said. "Where did
you first meet the rogue?"

And Maurice--weary and ashamed--was forced to embark on a minute account
of adventures that were lies from beginning to end: he had stumbled
across the wayside hostelry on a lonely by-path: he had found it full of
cut-throats: he had stalked and waylaid their chief in his own room,
and forced him to give up the money by the weight of his fists.

It was paltry and pitiable: nevertheless, St. Genis, as he warmed to his
tale, lost the shame of it; only wrath remained with him: anger that he
should be forced into this despicable role through the intrigues of a
rival.

In his