“Thanks to you for having escaped and rescued me!” Mrs. Clephane exclaimed.

“The management devised the way.”

“But you prompted it—­you are the one I have to thank.”

“If you insist, far be it from me to decline!  It’s well worth anything I can do to—­have you look at me as you’re looking now.”

“I hope I’m looking half that I feel,” she replied instantly.

“A modest man would be more than repaid by half the look,” he returned.

“Are you a modest man?” she smiled.

“I trust so.  At least, I am with some people.”

“You’re giving every instance of it with me, though it may be a part of the game; even the rescue may be a part of the game.  You may be playing me against Mrs. Spencer, and taking advantage of my inexperience to accomplish your purposes—­”

“You don’t think so!” he said, with a shake of his head.

“No, I don’t.  And maybe that only proves my inexperience and unfitness.”

For a moment he did not reply.  Was she playing him?  Was it a ruse of a clever woman; or was it the evidence of sincerity and innocence?  It had the ring of candour and the appearance of truth.  No one could look into those alluring eyes and that fascinatingly beautiful face and harbour a doubt of her absolute guilelessness.  Yet was it guilelessness?  He had never met guilelessness in the diplomatic game, save as a mask for treachery and deceit.  And yet this seemed the real thing.  He wanted to believe it.  In fact, he did believe it; it was simply the habit of his experience warning him to beware—­and because it was a woman it warned him all the more....  Yet he cast experience aside—­and also the fact that she was a woman—­and accepted her story as truth.  Maybe he would regret it; maybe she was playing him; maybe she was laughing behind her mask; maybe he was all kinds of a fool—­nevertheless, he would trust her.  It was—­

“I’m glad you have decided that I’m not a diplomat—­and that you will trust me,” she broke in.  “I’m just an ordinary woman, Mr. Harleston, just a very ordinary woman.”

He held out his hand.  She took it instantly.

“A very extraordinary woman, you mean, dear lady,” he said gravely.  “In some ways the most extraordinary that I have ever known.”

“It’s not in the line of diplomacy, I hope,” she shrugged.

“Not the feminine line, I assure you; Madeline Spencer is typical of it, and the top of her class—­which means she is wonderfully clever, inscrutable as fate, and without scruple or conscience.  No, thank God, you do not belong in the class of feminine diplomats!”

“Thank you, Mr. Harleston!” she said gently, permitting him, for an instant, to look deep into her brown eyes.  “Now, since you trust me, I want to refer briefly to Mrs. Spencer’s insinuation.”