able to suspect. We had
absolutely no enemy. Max had none. Everybody adored him--in his happy
days."

"The man whom Liane Devereux loved better than your brother?"

"Ah, but you must see, as the advocate saw, that if she loved the other
better he had no motive either to kill the woman or ruin Max. Where there
had been no injury, there need be no revenge. And if Max knew who the man
was he never told his name."

"There was nobody--_nobody_ who had a right to think himself injured by
your brother, even long before?"

"Not by my brother, so far as we could find out. The theory of a plot was
advanced, of course, and--and I clung to it; but it fell to the ground.
There seemed nothing to support it."

"And yet, from the way you speak, I can't help thinking that you suspect
some one."

"Oh, _I_! But I am only a woman. I was a very young girl then. Every one
I spoke to--even Max--thought my idea a mad one, and said it would do our
case far more harm than good to have it mentioned."

"Tell me, won't you, what it was?"

Madeleine hesitated. "I dare not," she answered. "My reason says that the
thing is impossible. If I wrong the man, it would be shameful to create a
prejudice in your mind against one, no doubt a stranger to you, but whom
you might one day meet, and, meeting, remember my words. Besides, it can
do no good to speak. It would be hopeless to prove anything against him,
even if his hand had been in a plot."

"Yet you said that your brother had no enemy?"

"This man was _my_ enemy. It had not always been so. Once we were
friends. But--something happened, and afterward I think he hated me."

"Is it possible that you are speaking of the Marchese Loria?"

The question sprang from Virginia's lips before she had stopped to
reflect whether it were wise to ask it, and she was terrified at the
effect of her impulsive words.

Madeleine Dalahaide's pale, sad face became ashen, her great eyes
dilated, and there was something of fear, perhaps even of distrust, in
the look she turned upon Virginia.

"You know him?" she exclaimed, her voice suddenly sharp.

"Yes," admitted the American girl.

"Then I think that you and I cannot be friends."

"Not friends? But if I give up the Marchese Loria for you?"

"I do not ask or wish you to do that."

"If he is your enemy he shall not be my friend."

"I have not said he was my enemy."

"I have heard that he loved your brother dearly."

"Perhaps."

"And yesterday----