“By listening to my story, your Excellency, and believing it,” Mrs. Clephane answered,—­“and at the end not being too severe on me for my misfortune and ignorance.”

“That will not be difficult,” he bowed, with a frank look of admiration.  “You come from Madame Durrand, I believe?”

“Yes—­you know Madame Durrand?”

The Marquis nodded.  “I have met her several times.”

“I’m glad!” said she.  “It may help me to prove my case.”

“Madame is her own proof,” was the answer.

For which answer he drew such a smile from Edith Clephane that in comparison the secretary’s smile was simply as nothing.

“Your Excellency overwhelms me,” she replied.  “I’m positively trembling with apprehension lest I fail to—­” she dropped into English—­“make good.”

He laughed lightly.  “You will make good!” he replied, also in English,
“Pray proceed.”

And Mrs. Clephane told him the whole story, from the time she met Madame Durrand on the steamer to the present moment—­omitting only the immaterial personal portions occurring between Harleston and herself, and the fact that his taxi had escorted hers until she was at the Embassy.

Her narrative was punctuated throughout by the Marquis’s constant exclamations of wonder or interest; but further than exclaiming, in the nervous French way, he made no interruption.

And on the whole, she told her story well; at first she was a little nervous, which made her somewhat at a loss for words; yet that soon passed, and her tale flowed along with delightful ease.

“Now you have been a wonderfully gracious listener, your Excellency,” she ended, “ask whatever questions you wish in regard to the matter; I shall be only too glad to answer if I am able.”

“Madame’s narrative has been most detailed and most satisfactory,” the Marquis answered.  “But let me ask you to explain, if you can, why Madame Durrand has not made a written report of this matter to the Embassy?”

“I have no idea—­unless she is ill.”

“Broken bones do not usually prevent one from writing, or dictating, a letter.”

“It is peculiar!” Mrs. Clephane admitted.

“What is the name of the hospital?” the Marquis asked.

“In the hurry and excitement I quite forgot to ask the name,” she replied.  “The station officials selected it.  I was thinking of her—­Madame Durrand, I mean—­more than the name of the hospital.  I don’t even know the street; though it’s somewhere in the locality of the station.  It is dreadfully stupid of me, your Excellency, not to know—­but I don’t.”

“We can remedy that very readily,” he said, and pressed a button.  His secretary responded.  “Telephone our Consul-General in New York to ascertain immediately from the railroad officials the hospital to which Madame Durrand, who broke her ankle and wrist in the Pennsylvania Station, at ten o’clock on Monday, was taken.”