Finding that he had let his cigarette go out, he threw it away, and turned from the window to complete his toilet.  As he did so his valet entered with a card, stating that the gentleman who had sent it in was waiting in the hail outside.

“Ask him to come in,” he said, briefly, when he had read the name.  He was scarcely surprised, for Pruyn had spoken more than once of showing him some civilities when they reached New York, and putting him up at one or two convenient dubs.

“My dear sir,” he cried, going forward with outstretched hand; but the words died on his lips as Derek pushed his way in brusquely, without greeting.

Again the young man attempted the ceremonious by apologizing for the informality of his surroundings and the state of his dress; but again he faltered before the haggard glare in Derek’s eyes.

“I want to talk to you,” Pruyn said, abruptly.  Bienville made a gesture of mingled politeness and astonishment.

“Certainly; but shall we not sit down while we do it?  Will you smoke?  Here are cigarettes, but you probably prefer a cigar.”

Educated in England, like many young Frenchmen of the upper classes, Bienville spoke English fluently and with little accent.

“I want to talk to you,” Derek said again.  He took no notice of the proffered seat, and they remained standing, as they were, with the round table, bestrewn with letters, between them.  “You remember,” Derek continued, speaking with difficulty—­“you remember the story you told me on the voyage—­about a woman?”

Bienville nodded.  He had a sudden presentiment of what was coming.

“I must tell you that on the night before I sailed for South America, three months ago, I asked that woman to be my wife.”

“In that case,” Bienville said, promptly, and with a tranquillity he did not feel, “I withdraw my statements.”

“Withdrawal isn’t enough.  You must tell me they were not true.”

Bienville remained silent for a minute.  He was beginning to realize the firmness of the ground he stood on.  His instinct for self-preservation was strong, and he had confidence in his dexterous use of the necessary weapons.

“You must give me time to reflect on that,” he said, after a pause.

“Why do you need time?  If the thing isn’t true, you’ve only got to say so.”

“It’s not quite so easy as that.  You can’t cut every difficulty with a sword, as they did the Gordian knot.  One may go far in defence of a woman’s honor, but there are boundaries which even a gallant man cannot pass; and, before I speak, I must see where they lie.”

“I want the truth.  I want no defence of a woman’s honor—­”

“Ah, but I do.  That’s the difference.”

“Damn your difference!  You didn’t think much of a woman’s honor when you began your infernal tales.”

“Did you, when you let me go on?”

“No.  That’s where I share your crime.  That’s all that keeps me from striking you now.”