“What I mean, Madame, is that you are either crazy or playing some game,” I answered curtly.

She brushed aside the tears and gave me a look of almost heart-broken appeal.

“Why do you deny me, Armand?” she cried.  “Have I grown ugly in the last few months?  Has the beauty you used to praise turned so soon to ashes?”

Unfortunately, for me, her beauty had not turned to ashes.  She was, at that very moment, the handsomest woman I had ever seen—­save only the Princess.  The slender figure—­the magnificent neck and shoulders—­the roll upon roll of jet-black hair—­the almost classic face—­and all in distress and trouble.

She was a picture, surely; and one that was making its impression; judging from the faces of Lord and Lady Radnor.  I changed my manner.

“My dear Mrs. Spencer,” I said kindly, “no one may deny your beauty—­and I, least of all.  But I do deny that I am your husband.  You are, evidently, ill, and laboring under some queer hallucination.”

She shook her head.  “You know perfectly well, Armand, I am not ill nor under a delusion,” she said, and looked me straight in the eyes.

“Then, Madame, you are a wonderful—­actress,” I answered.

Again the tears welled up, and one trickled slowly down her cheek.  She turned quickly and made as though to go.  But Courtney stayed her.

“My dear Madame,” he said, with that gracious courtesy of his, which I have never seen equalled by courtier of any Court, “may I ask you a question?”

She inclined her head in answer and waited.

“You have claimed a Royal Duke of Valeria as your husband, and he has denied the claim.  It is a most serious matter.  It was done in the presence of many witnesses, and your words, or some of them, were, doubtless, overheard by those at nearby tables.  The Capital will be full of the affair; and the results may be most unfortunate for you, and for His Highness.  I am the American Ambassador; here is the Ambassador of His Majesty of England; and, yonder, is His Royal Highness the Grand Duke Lotzen, Heir Presumptive to the Valerian Throne——­”

“Your speech is long, sir,” she said; “please come to the question.”

Courtney bowed.  “I was but trying to explain why I ventured to meddle in Madame’s business,” he said.

She smiled wearily.  “Your pardon, Monsieur; pray proceed.”

“The question I want to ask is this,” said Courtney:  “Will you not tell us when and where you became the wife of Armand Dalberg?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and gladly—­and I thank you for the thought.  I was married to Armand Dalberg—­then a Major in the American Army—­on the twenty-first day of last December in the City of New York.”

(That was only two months before I had sailed for Valeria; and I had been in New York that very day.)

“And by whom, pray?” I exclaimed.

“By the official you provided,” was the curt reply.  Then, to Courtney, she added:  “I don’t recall his name but my certificate shows it, I suppose.”