CHAPTER III
THE FIRST ROUND
There was no use in trying to send Rosalie back to Paris. She wouldn't go. The girl was no fool; and, totting up what she'd seen and what I'd told her, and making a good fore-and-aft guess at the rest, she came pretty near piping down the situation.
"As I dope it out," says she, sitting there on the edge of the bank with her round knees cuddled under her clasped hands, "there's a feud between you and this Chu-Chu person—and it's coming to a head. Now let me tell you something; there's been only one time in my life when I've started something that I couldn't finish, and that was my marriage to De Brignolles. I don't know whether you're what they call a 'grafter' over there at home, or whether you're a sort of Arsene Lupin or Sherlock Holmes, or what you are. At first I thought you were a jealous lover; then I thought you were a secret service man; then I thought you were a liar." Rosalie looked at me sort of doubtfully.
"What do you think I am now? I asked.
She smiled a little and shook her head.
"I don't know," she answered, "and I don't care very much; but you're an American, and you're up against something that is very difficult, and I'm not going to scud off and save myself."
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