“You seem to have escaped, last night,” she observed.

“Purely by his favor—­even luck hadn’t a finger in it.”

“But discretion had,” she remarked.  “He would not dare kill you.”

Lotzen shook his head.

“You don’t seem to know this husband of yours.  A Dalberg will dare anything.”

“Some Dalbergs,” she scoffed.

The Duke flushed.

“I’m doing badly—­you think me a coward,” he said.

“Oh, no, Prince—­only carefully discreet;” and she leaned back and slowly fanned herself.

He looked at her for a bit.

“Are you aware, my dear, that you are conniving at—­some might call it instigating—­the death of your husband?” he asked.

She smiled.  “Am I?”

“It is a very extraordinary situation,” he said, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it circle away.  “You are so tired of him you want him killed; he seems equally tired of you, and, moreover, he is determined to marry another woman.  Yet, neither of you gets a divorce—­and you actually follow him here—­and he, then, actually refuses to let you depart.”

The fan kept moving slowly.

“A very extraordinary situation, indeed, Your Highness,—­as you state it,” she said.

“As I state it?” he echoed.

She nodded.  “You have omitted the one material fact in the case.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

The fan stopped, and she laughed lightly.

“Simply this:  I am not Armand Dalberg’s wife.”

(Dehra reached over and took my hand.  The King looked at us both and nodded; then clapped me on the knee.)

For a space, Lotzen stared at Mrs. Spencer—­and she smiled sweetly back at him.

“Not his wife!” he ejaculated, presently.

Her smile became a laugh.

“No, monsieur; not his wife.”

This time, Lotzen’s stare was even longer.  Then, suddenly, he laughed.

“I thought, for a moment, you actually meant it,” he said.

She put both elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“Come, monsieur, let us be frank with each other,” she said.  “Not only am I not Armand Dalberg’s wife, but you have always known it.”

He frowned.  “My dear girl,” he said, “I’ve been sorrowfully accepting your own word that you are his wife; how should I know that you’ve been——­” he hesitated.

She finished it for him—­

“Lying, Duke, lying,” she laughed.

He held up his hands, protestingly.

“Not at all, my dear; teasing is the word I wanted.”

She lay back in the chair and laughed softly to herself.

“Do you fancy the Grand Duke Armand would call it teasing?” she asked.

He joined in the laugh.

“The victim never sees the joke,” he said.

She sat up sharply.

“So, then, it was intended only as a joke?” she exclaimed.  “I thought it had another object.”