"It's false!" cried the voice of a woman, husky with passion; and
throwing open the door of her cabin, the Countess de Mattos stood on the
threshold, not six feet distant from the two in the saloon.

Carried away on the tide of his very real love for Virginia Beverly,
whose pale, spiritualized beauty had gone to his head like wine, the
hot-blooded Italian was at a disadvantage. Strength had gone out of him
in his appeal. Physically and mentally he was spent.

The passionate voice, the flaming eyes of the woman suddenly seen in the
doorway, struck him like a double blow aimed at a drowning man. "Liane!"
he cried, before he could regain the self-mastery which meant all the
difference between life and death.

"Yes," she flung at him in French, "I _am_ Liane--Liane Devereux. Come,
every one, and hear what I have to say. This man is a traitor--traitorous
friend and treacherous lover!" She stopped for an instant, and threw a
glance round the saloon. Loria and Virginia Beverly were no longer alone
there. George Trent, Sir Roger Broom, Kate Gardiner, and two men who were
strangers had suddenly appeared as if by a conjuring trick. The woman
stood with her head held high, like some magnificent wild creature of the
forest at bay, fearing nothing save loss of vengeance. She was glad that
all these people had come. The more there were to hear the tale she meant
to tell, the more sure the stroke of her revenge. Yes, she was glad,
glad! And though she died for it, under the knife of the guillotine, she
would ruin the man who had deceived her.

"He pretended to love me," she went on. "But now I know that he never
did, for when he vowed love and devotion his voice did not once sound as
I have heard it now, speaking to that white-faced girl when he did not
dream I was near.

"I am Liane Devereux, not a Portuguese woman, not the Countess de Mattos,
therefore Maxime Dalahaide is not a murderer, since I live. It was the
Marchese Loria who arranged everything--even my name, and credentials,
and proofs of my identity as Manuela de Mattos, in case they were ever
needed. Oh, there was nothing neglected. But now I know that it was not
for my sake, as I thought, but to serve his own ends, and I am willing to
die to hold him back from success.

"I will tell you the whole story from the beginning. Five years ago I was
an actress in Paris. I made two or three failures. A powerful dramatic
critic had vowed to drive me off the stage. He had be