y she was determined to play the game to the end, accepting
defeat with an air of ironical and gay indifference. Yvette was by no
means an ordinary woman. Her face was at once sinister and attractive,
with lines of strength about it; she moved with a certain distinction;
she had brains and various abilities; and I imagined her to have been
capable of some large action, a first-class sin or a really dramatic
self-sacrifice--she would have been ready for either. But of her
origin I am to this day as ignorant as of her ultimate fate.

A current of air told me that a window was open.

"I noticed a suspicious-looking man outside just now," I said. "Is he
one of your confederates? Have you been communicating with him?"

She sat down in an armchair, leaned backwards, and began to hum an
air--la, la, la.

"Answer me. Come!"

"And if I decline?"

"You will do well to behave yourself," I said; and, going to the
window, I closed it, and slipped the catch.

"I hope the gendarmes will be here soon," she murmured amiably; "I am
rather tired of waiting." She affected to stifle a yawn.

"Yvette," I said, "you know as well as I do that you have committed a
serious crime. Tell me all about Deschamps' jealousy of your mistress;
make a full confession, and I will see what can be done for you."

She put her thin lips together.

"No," she replied in a sharp staccato. "I have done what I have done,
and I will answer only the juge d'instruction."

"Better think twice."

"Never. It is a trick you wish to play on me."

"Very well." I went to the door, and opened it wide. "You are free to
go."

"To go?"

"It is your mistress's wish."

"She will not send me to prison?"

"She scorns to do anything whatever."

For a moment the girl looked puzzled, and then:

"Ah! it is a bad pleasantry; the gendarmes are on the stairs."

I shrugged my shoulders, and at length she tripped quietly out of the
room. I heard her run down-stairs. Then, to my astonishment, the
footfalls approached again, and Yvette re-entered the room and closed
the door.

"I see it is not a bad pleasantry," she began, with her back to the
door. "Mademoiselle is a great lady, and I have always known that; she
is an artist; she has soul--so have I. What you could not force from
me, neither you nor any man, I will tell you of my own free will. You
want to hear of Deschamps?"

I nodded, half-admiring her--perhaps more than half.

"She is a woman to fear. I have