“Do you still persist, sir, that you do not know my rightful name?” she demanded.

From my previous acquaintance with the lady I knew she was working herself into a passion; though, why, I could not imagine.

“My dear Madame,” I said, “why such pother over such a trifle?  If your name be, no longer, Madeline Spencer, tell me what it is.  I shall be profoundly glad to call you by it—­or any name than Spencer,” I added.

She felt the thrust and her eyes answered it.  Then, suddenly, she turned and faced those at the table.

“Your pardon,” she said, speaking straight at Lord Radnor, “will you tell me if this man here”—­waving her hand toward me—­“is Major Armand Dalberg?”

Lord Radnor bowed.  “That gentleman is His Royal Highness the Grand Duke Armand of Valeria,” he said.

“Erstwhile, Major of Engineers in the American Army?” she asked.

“I believe so, Madame,” said his Lordship, stiffly.

“Thank you,” she said.  “And now——­”

But I broke in.  “Madame,” I said sharply, “you have presumed beyond forbearance.  Major Moore, will you escort the lady to her companions.”

Moore stepped forward and, bowing very low, offered his arm.  Like a flash, her face changed and she met him with a smile.

“Just a moment, if you please,” she said, with softest accents.  Then, with studied deliberation, she turned her back on me and swept the Princess an elaborate courtesy.

“Your Royal Highness may pardon my intrusion,” she said, “when I tell you that I am Armand Dalberg’s wife——­ Now, Major Moore, I am ready,” and she put her hand upon his arm.

But Moore never moved.  Instead, he looked at me for orders.

Language is utterly inadequate to describe my feelings at that moment; so I shall not try.  Imagination is better than words.  I know I had an almost uncontrollable impulse for violence—­and I fancy Courtney feared it, for he stepped quickly over and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Thank you, old man,” I said.  Then I looked at the Princess.

She was leaning carelessly back in her chair, watching the Spencer woman through half-closed eyes—­a bright flush on each cheek and:  a faint smile, half sneer, half amusement, on her lips.  Suddenly she looked at me, and the smile flashed out into such an one as she had given me in the Royal Box.

My heart gave a great bound—­I knew she trusted me, still.  I turned to the woman in black.

“Is it possible, Madame, that you claim to be my wife?” I asked.

She dropped Moore’s arm and took a step toward me—­and, as I live, there were tears in her eyes.

“What has changed you, Armand?” she asked.  “Why do you flout me so?”

I stared at her.  “God help me, woman, you must be crazy!” I said.

She put out her hand appealingly.  “You don’t mean that, dear, surely?” And, now, the tears were in her voice, too.