“And yet, Nick Carter, I am a good woman. You doubt it, but it is true. I have not been good perhaps in the little things of life, but in the great ones I have been so. No man lives who can point his finger at me in scorn; no man who is dead might have ever done so. I have never committed a crime in my life, or abetted one, although I have been accused of many crimes.” “And yet, countess——” “Ah!” she interrupted him. “I know what you would say. You would charge me with things that the chief of police in Paris told you about. You would say that I had lured men to their death. It is not true. You would say that men have killed themselves because of me. It is not true in so far as it was a studied fault of mine, or that I led them to it, or was willfully responsible for it. “My life has been a strange one, my friend. One may cleave closely to the awful precipices, and yet avoid them. That is true, is it not?” “Yes; it is quite true.” “Nicholas Carter, I would at least have you judge me fairly—and the day will come when you will do so.” She stopped suddenly, laughed in a low tone, and half turned away. “And now,” she said, with an entire change of tone, “let us return to present things and to the life we really live, not the one which we would like to live. The life we do live is false, hollow, filled with deceits, subterfuges, lies! The life I long to live in is true, sound, upright, filled with fairness and frankness and honesty. Now again—why are you here to-night?” “I came here to this house, countess, expressly to see you and to talk with you.” “Then you have accomplished your desire. Why are you in Washington?” “I am here in pursuit of my profession.” “Ah; that is frankness, at least—and we were not to be frank with each other any more, were we?” “You must follow your own bent in that particular, countess, and permit me to follow mine.” She arose from the seat she had been occupying, and he rose also and stood near her. “I will return frankness with frankness—for this once,” she said, with one of her inscrutable smiles. “I know why you are here. I will tell you enough to assure you that I do know it; enough to assure you that I am aware of your own shrewdness, and therefore am perfectly assured of what you suspect me.” “Well?” “You came to Washington at the invitation of the ambassador for Russia. That invitation was taken to you in person by colonel, the Prince Alexis Turnieff—who believes that I murdered his father, or at least was the cause of his death. You have become convinced that I am in the service of a country which, at this time, believes it has reason to keep a sharp watch upon the things that Russia is doing, or is attempting to do, and you have taken it upon yourself to watch me. Isn’t that true?” “Since you believe it, countess, it seems a waste of words to say that it is, or that it is not true. Have it so, if you wish.” “Ah; you will not be quite frank with me.”