“We all have,” returned the Foreign Secretary, “especially those who know her best.  Among her many virtues, she’s one of the few women who can keep a secret—­her own and others.  She is a magnificent actress—­on the stage and off.  And now I have your promise to help me, I must tell you it’s to help her as well:  therefore I owe you the whole truth, or you will be handicapped.  For several years Mademoiselle de Renzie has done good service—­secret service, you must understand—­for Great Britain.”

“By Jove!  Maxine a political spy!” Ivor broke out impulsively.

“That’s rather a hard name, isn’t it?  There are better ones.  And she’s no traitor to her country, because, as you perhaps know, she’s Polish by birth.  I can assure you we’ve much for which to thank her cleverness and tact—­and beauty.  For our sakes I’m sorry that she’s serving our interests professionally for the last time.  For her own sake, I ought to rejoice, as she’s engaged to be married.  And if you can save her from coming to grief over this very ticklish business, she’ll probably live happily ever after.  Did you know of her engagement?”

“No,” replied Ivor.  “I saw Miss de Renzie often when she was acting in London a year ago; but after she went to Paris—­of course, she’s very busy and has crowds of friends; and I’ve only crossed once or twice since, on hurried visits; so we haven’t met, or written to each other.”

("Very good reason,” I thought bitterly, behind my sofa.  “You’ve been busy, too—­falling in love with Diana Forrest.”)

“It hasn’t been announced yet, but I thought as an old friend you might have been told.  I believe Mademoiselle wants to surprise everybody when the right time comes—­if the poor girl isn’t ruined irretrievably in this affair of ours.”

“Is there really serious danger of that?” “The most serious.  If you can’t save her, not only will the Entente Cordiale be shaken to its foundations (and I say nothing of my own reputation, which is at stake), but her future happiness will be broken in the crash, and—­she says—­she will not live to suffer the agony of her loss.  She will kill herself if disaster comes; and though suicide is usually the last resource of a coward, Mademoiselle de Renzie is no coward, and I’m inclined to think I should come to the same resolve in her place.”

“Tell me what I am to do,” said Ivor, evidently moved by the Foreign Secretary’s strange words, and his intense earnestness.

“You will go to Paris by the first train to-morrow morning, without mentioning your intention to anyone; you will drive at once to some hotel where you have never stayed and are not known.  I will find means of informing the lady what hotel you choose.  You will there give a fictitious name (let us say, George Sandford) and you will take a suite, with a private sitting-room.  That done, you will say that you are expecting a lady to call upon you, and will see no one else.  You will wait till Mademoiselle de Renzie appears, which will certainly be as soon as she can possibly manage; and when you and she are alone together, sure that you’re not being spied upon, you will put into her hands a small packet which I shall give you before we part to-night.”