You know what a little man like Callan will feel ... he will be made ill.  He would faint at the sight of a drop of blood, you know, and he will see—­oh, the very worst, worse than what Radet saw.  And he will write a frightful article, and it will be a thunderclap for de Mersch....  And de Mersch will be getting very shaky by then.  And your friend Churchill will try to carry de Mersch’s railway bill through in the face of the scandal.  Churchill’s motives will be excellent, but everyone will say ...  You know what people say ...  That is what I and Gurnard want.  We want people to talk; we want them to believe....”

I don’t know whether there really was a hesitation in her voice, or whether I read that into it.  She stood there, playing with the knots of the window-cords and speaking in a low monotone.  The whole thing, the sad twilight of the place, her tone of voice, seemed tinged with unavailing regret.  I had almost forgotten the Dimensionist story, and I had never believed in it.  But now, for the first time I began to have my doubts.  I was certain that she had been plotting something with one of the Duc de Mersch’s lieutenants.  The man’s manner vouched for that; he had not been able to look me in the face.  But, more than anything, his voice and manner made me feel that we had passed out of a realm of farcical allegory.  I knew enough to see that she might be speaking the truth.  And, if she were, her calm avowal of such treachery proved that she was what she had said the Dimensionists were; cold, with no scruples, clear-sighted and admirably courageous, and indubitably enemies of society.

“I don’t understand,” I said.  “But de Mersch then?”

She made a little gesture; one of those movements that I best remember of her; the smallest, the least noticeable.  It reduced de Mersch to nothing; he no longer even counted.

“Oh, as for him,” she said, “he is only a detail.”  I had still the idea that she spoke with a pitying intonation—­as if she were speaking to a dog in pain.  “He doesn’t really count; not really.  He will crumble up and disappear, very soon.  You won’t even remember him.”

“But,” I said, “you go about with him, as if you....  You are getting yourself talked about....  Everyone thinks—­” ...  The accusation that I had come to make seemed impossible, now I was facing her.  “I believe,” I added, with the suddenness of inspiration.  “I’m certain even, that he thinks that you ...”

“Well, they think that sort of thing.  But it is only part of the game.  Oh, I assure you it is no more than that.”

I was silent.  I felt that, for one reason or another, she wished me to believe.

“Yes,” she said, “I want you to believe.  It will save you a good deal of pain.”