She turned oftenest to Fitzgerald, for he made particular effort to entertain, and he succeeded better than he dreamed.  It kept turning over in her mind what a whimsical, capricious, whirligig was at work.  It was droll, this man at her side, chatting to her as if he had known her for years, when, seven or eight days ago, he had stood, a man all unknown to her, on a city corner, selling plaster of Paris statuettes on a wager; and but for Mrs. Coldfield, she had passed him for ever.  Out upon the prude who would look askance at her for harmless daring!

“Drop into my room before you turn in,” urged Fitzgerald to Cathewe.

“That I shall, my boy.  I’ve some questions to ask of you.”

But a singular idea came into creation, and this was for him, Cathewe, to pay Breitmann a visit on the way to Fitzgerald’s room.  Not one man in a thousand would have dared put this idea into a plan of action.  But neither externals nor conventions deterred Cathewe when he sought a thing.  He rapped lightly on the door of the secretary’s room.

“Come in.”

Cathewe did so, gently closing the door behind him.  Breitmann was in his shirt-sleeves.  He rose from his chair and laid down his cigarette.  A faint smile broke the thin line of his mouth.  He waited for his guest, or, rather, this intruder, to break the silence.  And as Cathewe did not speak at once, there was a tableau during which each was speculatively busy with the eyes.

“The vicissitudes of time,” said Cathewe, “have left no distinguishable marks upon you.”

Breitmann bowed.  He remained standing.

And Cathewe had no wish to sit.  “I never expected to see you in this house.”

“A compliment which I readily return.”

“A private secretary; I never thought of you in that capacity.”

“One must take what one can,” tranquilly.

“A good precept.”  Cathewe rolled the ends of his mustache, a trifle perplexed how to put it.  “But there should be exceptions.  What,” and his voice became crisp and cold, “what was Hildegarde von Mitter to you?”

“And what is that to you?”

“My question first.”

“I choose not to answer it.”

Again they eyed each other like fencers.

“Were you married?”

Breitmann laughed.  Here was his opportunity to wring this man’s heart; for he knew that Cathewe loved the woman.  “You seem to be in her confidence.  Ask her.”

“A poltroon would say as much.  There is a phase in your make-up I have never fully understood.  Physically you are a brave man, but morally you are a cad and a poltroon.”

“Take care!” Breitmann stepped forward menacingly.

“There will be no fisticuffs,” contemptuously.

“Not if you are careful.  I have answered your questions; you had better leave at once.”

“She is loyal to you.  It was not her voice that broke that night; it was her heart, you have some hold over her.”