before uttering
the word that made it necessary. Still it was my act that brought it
about, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.

After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Mary
was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who
surrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, of
his adventures, fancied or real, I know not which, but interesting,
and all of a questionable character.

When I spoke to Mary, she turned and gave me her hand. I had not
expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was not
disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she
would have given to any other man. But Mary was Mary. Nature and art had
made her what she was--charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply
lukewarm.

"I have seen little of you this last month," said Mary, taking my arm and
walking with me away from De Grammont's group. She might have remarked
with equal emotion that Cromwell was dead or the weather fine. She did
not wait for an explanation of my absence, but continued with a touch of
eager hesitancy and a fluttering show of anxiety, "Have you had news
recently of my brother George?"

Of course I could not tell her the truth, so I answered evasively: "I
suppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he has
gone to Canada? Doubtless you can tell me more than I know."

"That is all I know," she answered. "When he went, or where, I have been
unable to learn, for George is a forbidden topic in our household and
seems to be the same at court. What has he done, baron? I have heard it
hinted that he threatened to take the king's life. Surely he did nothing
of the sort."

"If he did, it was in a delirium of fever," I answered, hoping that she
would cease speaking of George and would ask a question or two concerning
myself.

But no. She turned again to me, asking, "Did you hear him?"

"I have been told that the accusation comes from his physician, and
perhaps from one who was listening at his door," I answered, avoiding a
direct reply.

"I suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom I have
heard--the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked Mary, looking up to
me for confirmation.

"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should have
used.

"Do you know her?" she asked.

"I do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper,"
I answered sullen