“Robert Clephane was all that she said—­and more.  Middle-aged when he married me, before a year was passed I had found that I was only another experience for him; and that after a short time he had resumed his ways of—­gaiety.  Not caring to be pitied, nor to be so soon a deserted wife, nor yet to admit my loss of attraction for him, I dashed into the gay life of Paris with reckless fervour.  I know I was indiscreet.  I know I fractured conventionality and was dreadfully compromised—­but I never violated the Seventh Commandment.  Robert Clephane and I were not separated—­except by a locked door.

“Then one day some two years back, dreadfully mangled, they brought him home.  An aeroplane had fallen with him—­with the usual result.  That moment saw the end of my gay life.  I passed it up as completely as though it had never been.  The reason for it was gone.  After a very short period of mourning, I took up the quietness of a respectable widow, who wished only to forget that she ever was married.”

“I can understand exactly,” said Harleston.  “You shall never hear a word from me to remind you.”

“I’ve never heard anything to remind me of the past until this alluring beauty’s insinuations of a moment ago.  That is why it hit me so hard, Mr. Harleston.  And why did she do it?  Is she jealous of you, or of me, or what?”

“She’s not jealous of me!” he laughed.  “I know her history; it’s something of a history, too....  Sometime I’ll tell you all about it; it’s an interesting tale.  Is it possible you’ve never heard in Paris of Madeline Spencer?”

“Never!”

“Nor of the Duchess of Lotzen?”

“Great Heavens!” she cried.  “Is she the Duchess of Lotzen?”

“The same,” Harleston nodded.

“H-u-m!  I can understand now a little of her—­No wonder I felt my helplessness before her polished poise!”

“Nonsense!” he smiled.

“Why should such an accomplished—­diplomat want to injure me with you?” she asked.

“She was not seeking to injure you in the sense that you imply,” he returned.  “Her purpose was to put you in the same class as herself, so that I should trust you no more than I do her; to make you appear an emissary of France, in its secret service, playing the game of ignorance and inexperience for its present purpose.  For you, as a personality she does not care a fig.  To her you are but one of the pieces, to be moved or threatened as her purpose dictates.  In the diplomatic game, my lady, we know only one side—­all other sides are the enemy; and nothing, not even a woman’s reputation, is permitted to stand for an instant in the way of attaining our end.”

“Therefore a good woman—­or one who would forget the past—­has no earthly business to become involved in the game,” Mrs. Clephane returned.  “I shall get out of it the instant this matter of the letter is completed—­and stay out thereafter.  Even friendship won’t lure me to it.  Never again, Mr. Harleston, never again for mine!”