of--a--woman," he repeated, with slow
emphasis, "who, after having ruined her husband's life, was preparing to
ruin his. She would have ruined his as she had ruined the lives of other
men before him. When he endeavored to elude her, she set on her husband
to call him out. There was a duel--or the semblance of a duel. My friend
fired into the air. The poor devil of a husband shot himself. It appears
that he had every reason for doing so."

"My husband didn't shoot himself."

"Your husband?" he asked, with an ironical lifting of the eyebrows.
"What makes you think I've been speaking of him?"

"The man whom you call your friend is the Marquis de Bienville--"

"He didn't mention your name; but I see you're able to tell me his. It's
what I was afraid of. I've repeated only a very little of what he said;
but since you recognize its truth already, it isn't necessary to
continue."

She passed her hand over her forehead, with the gesture of one trying
desperately to see aright.

"I must ask you to tell me plainly: Was I the--the unscrupulous woman
into whose toils Monsieur de Bienville fell?"

"He didn't say so."

"Then why--why have you spoken of this to me?"

"Because what I heard from him fitted in so exactly with what I had
heard from you that it made an entire story. It was like the two parts
of a puzzle. The one without the other is incomplete and perplexing; but
having both, you can see the perfect whole. I will be frank enough to
tell you that many of your sayings were dark to me until I had his to
lend them light."

"Would it be of any use to say that what he told you wasn't true?"

"I don't know that it would be of any use to say it, unless it could be
proved."

"Did you ask him to give you proof?"

"No; because you had already provided me with that.

"How?"

"Surely you must remember telling me that you had ruined one rich man,
and might ruin another: that no man could cope with a woman such as you
were two or three years ago. There were these things--there were other
things--many other things--"

"And that's what you understood from them?"

"I understood nothing whatever. If I thought of such words at all, it
was to attribute them to a morbid sensibility. It wasn't until I got
their interpretation that they came back to me. It wasn't until I had
met some one who knew you before I did, and better than I did--"

"It wasn't till then that you thought of me what no man ever thinks of a
woman until