“I understand,” she replied in her cool, sweet voice.

She went to meet the men in the middle of the room.  Duchemin turned back to the window, where, standing in the recess, with the light behind him, he could watch and reflect without his interest or emotions, becoming too apparent.  And he was grateful for that moment of respite in which to compose and prepare himself.  Within an hour, he knew, within a day or so at most, he must be under arrest, charged with the theft of the Montalais jewels, damned by his yesterday as much as by every turn of circumstantial evidence....

The men whom Jean ushered in proved to be, outwardly, what Duchemin had expected:  of a class only too well-known to him, plain men of the people, unassuming, well-trained and informed, sceptical; not improbably shrewd hands in the game of thief-taking.

Saluting Madame de Montalais with calculated ceremony, one acting as spokesman offered to present their credentials.  Duchemin had a start of surprise to dissemble when he saw the woman wave these aside.

“It is not necessary, messieurs,” she said.  “I regret very much to have inconvenienced you, although of course it will make no difference in your bill; but I have brought you here to no purpose.  The necessity for my contemplated journey no longer exists.”

There were expressions of surprise to which she put an end with the words, accompanied by a charming smile:  “Frankly, messieurs, I am afraid you will have to make allowances for the traditional inconsistency of my sex:  I have simply changed my mind.”

There was nothing more to be said.  Openly more than a little mystified, the men withdrew.

The smile with which she dismissed them lingered, delightful and enigmatic, as Eve recognised the stupefaction with which Duchemin moved to remonstrate with her.

“Madame!” he cried in a low voice of wonder and protest—­“why did you do that?  Why let them go without telling them—?”

“I must have had a reason, don’t you think, Monsieur Duchemin?”

“I don’t understand you, madame.  You treat the loss of jewels as if it must be a secret private to ourselves, to you and to me!”

“Possibly that is my wish, monsieur.”  He gave a gesture of bewilderment.  “Perhaps,” she continued, meeting his blank stare with eyes in which amusement gave place to a look almost apologetic yet utterly kind—­“perhaps I have more faith in you...”

Duchemin bowed his head over hands so tightly knitted that the knuckles were white with strain.

“You would not have faith,” he said in a low voice, “if you knew—­”

She interrupted in a gentle voice:  “Are you sure?”

“—­What I must tell you!”

“My friend,” she said:  “tell me nothing that would distress you.”

He did not immediately reply; the struggle going on within him was only too plainly betrayed by engorged veins upon his forehead and exceeding pallor of countenance.