"But why should my love for you prove my ruin?" I cried madly. "The truth is that you do not love me. Why not admit it at once?"

"You are in error," she hastened to protest. "I do love you. I love you to-day with the same fond affection as I entertained for you until that day--fatal to me--when you turned your back upon me and left me.

But, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then."

She paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: "Gerald, my love, hear me! These are my last words, but I p.r.o.nounce them--I make confession--so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between us."

"Well," I said, "speak--tell me!"

"Ah!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely, covering her face with her hands, "you wring this confession from me. I am the most unhappy girl in all the world.

Would that I were dead that it was all ended! If I did not love you, Gerald, I should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after our marriage. But I cannot--I cannot! Even though we shall part to-day for ever, I have resolved to be frank with you because I still have one single spark of honesty left within my heart!"

"I don't understand," I exclaimed. "Tell me."

"Then listen," she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments of hesitation. "When we were lovers in the old days I was, as you know, a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my G.o.d and for yourself. But I am that no longer. I am unworthy your love, Gerald. I am unfit to be your wife, and can never be--never!" and she threw herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while I stood there rigid as a statue.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DEANE SPEAKS HIS MIND.

An hour later I was seated in my room at the Emba.s.sy staring blankly at the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. I loved Yolande--nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to allow me to resume my place at her side. At one moment it seemed to me as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another I could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct suspicion. My love's strange words were in themselves a sufficient self-condemnation. Her service as a political agent had been secured by one or other of the Powers--France, I suspected; and, to put it plainly, she was a spy!

This knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. Of all the women I had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of our diplomacy, Yolande was certainly the chief. The events which had culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery.

Why had she done this? Who had tempted her or forced her to it?

Those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and I, loving her so fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. There was an affinity between us that I knew might some day prove fatal.

But we had parted. She had announced her intention of leaving Paris, accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored that I would never seek her again.

"I shall take care to evade you," she had said. "To-day we meet for the last time. We must each go our own way and strive our hardest to forget."

Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible. When a man has loved as ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a pa.s.sing thought to that fair one who in youth's golden days was your all in all. The sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman's chiffons as she pa.s.ses, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. You recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. The most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love.

I had been a fool. This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there ruminating. I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent.

My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control.

True, indeed, it is that love is blind.

I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. What mad words I wrote I almost forget. All I know is that even then I could not hold back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. I tried to put the letter aside for calmer reflection, but could not. My pen ran on, recording the eloquence of my heart. Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for the messenger of the Emba.s.sy, and gave him instructions to take it to her.

"There is no answer, m'sieur?" the man inquired.

"None," I answered.

Then the door closed again, and I was alone.

Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. Fate had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my life.

Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: "Doctor Deane has called, and wishes to see you, sir."

I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.

"Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!" he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise, "what's the matter? You don't look yourself."

"Oh, nothing," I answered with ill-feigned carelessness. "A bit worried, that's all."

"Worried over mademoiselle--eh?" he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"Ah, I guessed as much," he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the table and flinging himself into a chair. "Mind if I smoke? I've been busy all day, and am dying for a weed."

"Smoke? Why, of course," I answered, pushing my cigars and some matches before him.

I took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously through the smoke, asked at last:

"What has occurred between you? Mademoiselle is leaving Paris to-morrow."

"How did you know?"

"I called half an hour ago, and found both her and the Countess making preparations for a hasty departure. Have you quarrelled again?"

"No, there is no quarrel between us," I answered gravely. "On the contrary, there is a perfect understanding."

An incredulous smile crossed his features. "Well," he said, "I don't know, after all, what right I have to interfere in your private affairs at all, old chap, but if I might be allowed to make an observation I should say that there is some very extraordinary mystery surrounding both the Countess and her daughter."

"You don't like the Countess?"

"No, I don't. I conceived a violent prejudice against her on the first occasion that I saw her. That prejudice has already ripened into--well, I was about to say hatred."

"Why?"

"Well, I called upon them this afternoon with an object, and found the Countess determined to place impediments in my way."

"What was your object?"

"I wished to satisfy myself of a certain fact."

"Of what fact?" I inquired with quick suspicion. "Of the cause of her daughter's sudden attack last night."

"And what did you find?" I asked eagerly.

"I discovered a rather curious circ.u.mstance," he said. "You will remember telling me that when you searched the room you found she had written a letter almost immediately before her mysterious attack. Well, when I had a look round that room later I saw the letter sealed in its envelope and addressed to the Baroness Maillac, at Grands Sablons, lying in the little letter-rack, and took possession of it, in the faint hope that it might direct me to some clue as to the cause of her curious condition. You will remember, too, the curious, unaccountable mark upon her lip. I wished to see that mark again. I examined it, but against the wish of the Countess, who appeared to regard me with considerable animosity."

"What was in the letter? You opened it, of course?"

"Yes, I opened it, but the note inside was of no interest whatever.

Nevertheless, I had my suspicions, and have proved them to be well grounded."

"What have you proved?"

"Briefly this: the mark upon mademoiselle's lip caused me to suspect poisoning; yet it was apparent that she had not attempted suicide, but that the poison, whatever its nature, had entered the tiny crack in the lip by accident. I therefore came to the conclusion that her lip had come into contact with some baneful substance immediately prior to her attack, and when you mentioned the writing of the letter it appeared to me that the gum upon the envelope might be the channel by which the poison was conveyed to the mouth. The greater part of the night I spent in dissolving the gum and making experiments with the solutions thus obtained."