nodded most emphatically, and turned to her cup again.
The name of Marie Delhasse, shot forth from Mme. de Saint-Maclou’s pouting lips, pierced the cloud that had seemed to envelop my brain. I sat up on the sofa and looked eagerly at the duchess.
“You saw her, then, at the convent?” I asked.
“Yes, I met her in the chapel. Really, I should have expected to be safe from her there. And the Mother would not turn her out!” And then the duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half challenging smile: “You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?”
For a minute I regarded the duchess. And I smiled, and my smile turned to a laugh as I answered:
“Oh, yes! I got the note.”
“I meant it,” said she. “But I suppose I must forgive you now. You’ve been so brave, and you’re so much hurt.” And the duchess’ eyes expressed a gratifying admiration of my powers.
I fingered my arm, which lay comfortably enough in the bandages and the sling that Suzanne’s care had provided for it. And I rose to my feet.
“Oh, you mustn’t move!” cried the duchess, rising also and coming to where I stood.
“By Jove, but I must!” said I, looking at the clock. “The duke’s got four hours’ start of me.”
