Diana’s head whirled with the throng of confused ideas that poured in upon her.

And Adrienne de Gervais?  What part did she play in this strange medley? Tattle of the Town assigned her one.  Max and Adrienne and Ruvania were all inextricably tangled up together in the thought-provoking paragraph.

Suddenly, Diana’s heart gave a great leap as a possible explanation of the whole matter sprang into her mind.  There had been two children of the morganatic marriage, a son and a daughter.  Was it conceivable that Adrienne de Gervais was the daughter?

Adrienne, Max’s sister!  That would account for his inexplicably close friendship with her, his devotion to her welfare, and—­if she, like himself, were exiled—­the secrecy which he had maintained.

Slowly the conviction that this was the true explanation of all that had caused her such bitter heartburning in the unhappy past grew and deepened in Diana’s mind.  A chill feeling of dismay crept about her heart.  If it were true, then how hideously—­how unforgivably—­she had misjudged her husband!

She drew a sharp, agonised breath, her shaking fingers gripping the bedclothes like a frightened child’s.

“Oh, not that!  Don’t let it be that!” she whispered piteously.

She looked round the room with scared eyes.  Who could help her—­tell her the truth—­set at rest this new fear which had assailed her?  There must be some one . . . some one. . . .  Yes, there was Olga! She knew—­had known Max’s secret all along.  But would she speak?  Would she reveal the truth?  Something—­heaven knew what!—­had kept her silent hitherto, save for the utterance of those maddening taunts and innuendoes which had so often lodged in Diana’s heart and festered there.

Feverishly Diana sprang out of bed and began to dress, flinging on her clothes in a very frenzy of haste.  She would see Olga, and beg, pray, beseech her, if necessary, to tell her all she knew.

If she failed, if the Russian woman obstinately denied her, she would know no peace of mind—­no rest.  She felt she had reached breaking-point—­she could endure no more.

But she would not fail.  When Olga came—­and she would be here soon, very soon now—­she would play up the knowledge she had gleaned from the newspaper for all it was worth, and she would force the truth from her, willing or unwilling.

Whether that truth spelt heaven, or the utter, final wrecking of all her life, she must know it.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE REAPING

Half an hour later Diana descended to the big music-room, where she usually rehearsed, to find Olga Lermontof already awaiting her there.

By a sheer effort of will she had fought down the storm of emotion which had threatened to overwhelm her, and now, as she greeted her accompanist, she was quite cool and composed, though rather pale and with tired shadows beneath her eyes.