“And for me, too, at present,” I answered.

“At present?” he echoed, blowing a succession of smoke rings and watching them float away.

I nodded.  “She will get tired of the game, presently, and quit.”

“She has stuck to it rather persistently,” he observed; “and crossed the seas to play it.”

“Yes,” said I, “she did just that; yet she is none the less liable to quit abruptly to-morrow.”

That would interest him, I thought.  It did.

“You are judging from experience?” he asked, rather quickly.

“I’ve known the lady for a few years,” I laughed, “and I’ve yet to find her true either to herself or to the hand that paid her.”

It was characteristic of the man that, at these last words, he made no quick glance at my face.  Instead, he studied the end of his cigar.  When he did look at me, it was in the perfectly natural way of asking a question.

Then I got a start.  He suddenly struck straight from the shoulder.

“By ‘the hand that paid her,’ you mean?” he asked—­and now, his eyes were fairly drilling into mine.

I took on a look of surprise.

“What does it usually mean?” I answered, with a bit of a shrug.

He either had to appear to accept the inference in this answer or else ask me blankly if I meant that Mrs. Spencer was in his employ.  He chose the former.

“It is very difficult to associate such a beautiful woman with the demi-monde,” he said.

“Yet, Saint Anthony would stand no chance with her.”

He looked at me with an amused smile.

“I assume you lay no claims to even ordinary saintship?”

“None, whatever, my dear Duke.”

“Possibly, you avoided situations which might put you to the test?”

“Possibly,” I laughed.

“You are more of a Saint than you imagine,” he answered.

I shook my head.

“Colonel Spencer was my friend,” I said.

“And his wife—­and widow would have been—­yours—­and you would not; n’est ce pas?”

I smiled.

“So, that’s the motive for it, is it.  ’Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” he quoted.  It was meant as a question, however.

I appeared to hesitate.

“Revenge, sometimes, does take queer forms,” I said tentatively.

“And you, too, think this is revenge?” he asked.

“What other motive could she have?” I answered.

He closed his eyes, a moment; lest, I suppose, his amused contempt would shine out so plainly that even stupid I would see it.  He was sure, now, he had been right in deeming me too heavy-witted to suspect him.

“It might be blackmail,” he suggested.

“Then, she is a very long time in naming her price,” I replied.

“True; but, maybe, she is enjoying Dornlitz,” he laughed.

I laughed, too.

“It’s none of my business, of course, Armand,” he went on, “but, why don’t you run her out of the Kingdom, instead of keeping her in by force.”