Harley and I stared vaguely across at the table. I saw Val Beverley glancing uneasily in the same direction. Save for the writing materials and little heap of manuscript, it held only a cup and saucer, a few sandwiches, and a medicine bottle containing the prescription which Dr. Rolleston had made up for the invalid. “I am curious to know what you have written, Madame,” declared Harley. “Yes, you are curious?” she said. “Very well, then, I will tell you, and afterward you may read if you wish.” She turned to me. “You, my friend,” she whispered, and reaching over she laid her jewelled hand upon my arm, “you have spoken with Ysola de Valera this afternoon, they tell me?” “With Mrs. Camber?” I asked, startled. “Yes, that is true.” “Ah, Mrs. Camber,” murmured Madame. “I knew her as Ysola de Valera. She is beautiful, in her golden doll way. You think so?” Then, ere I had time to reply: “She told you, I suppose, eh?” “She told me,” I replied with a certain embarrassment, “that she had met you some years ago in Cuba.” “Ah, yes, although _I_ told the fat Inspector it was not so. How we lie, we women! And of course she told you in what relation I stood to Juan Menendez?” “She did not, Madame de Stämer.” “No-no? Well, it was nice of her. No matter. _I_ will tell you. I was his mistress.” She spoke without bravado, but quite without shame, seeming to glory in the statement. “I met him in Paris,” she continued, half closing her eyes. “I was staying at the house of my sister, and my sister, you understand, was married to Juan’s cousin. That is how we met. I was married. Yes, it is true. But in France our parents find our husbands and our lovers find our hearts. Yet sometimes these marriages are happy. To me this good thing had not happened, and in the moment when Juan’s hand touched mine a living fire entered into my heart and it has been burning ever since; burning-burning, always till I die. “Very well, I am a shameless woman, yes. But I have lived, and I have loved, and I am content. I went with him to Cuba, and from Cuba to another island where he had estates, and the name of which I shall not pronounce, because it hurts me so, even yet. There he set eyes upon Ysola de Valera, the daughter of his manager, and, pouf!” She shrugged and snapped her fingers. “He was like that, you understand? I knew it well. They did not call him Devil Menendez for nothing. There was a scene, a dreadful scene, and after that another, and yet a third. I have pride. If I had seemed to forget it, still it was there. I left him, and went back to France. I tried to forget. I entered upon works of charity for the soldiers at a time when others were becoming tired. I spent a great part of my fortune upon establishing a hospital, and this child”--she threw her arm around Val Beverley--“worked with me night and day. I think I wanted to die. Often I tried to die. Did I not, dear?” “You did, Madame,” said the girl in a very low voice.