There was about her an odd yet pretty air of penitence, an air that gave place at times to soft laughter when some jest fell from Wilfrid; then, as if conscious that gaiety did not become her so soon after her ill-treatment of him, she would become grave again; and so, what with her obvious desire to please him, and what with her winning glances, the last trace of resentment faded from Wilfrid’s mind. He could not help thinking it strange that Pauline, who had evidently learned from her father all about the proposed duel, should betray no curiosity as to the lady that had caused it, but so it was; and, since she was silent on the matter, he himself maintained a similar reserve. “Can you tell me,” he asked, “if the Czar attended the rendezvous?” “Not if he believed in the lie of Lord St. Helens.” “What was that?” “A lie to which—what will you think of me?—I gave my sanction. At six this morning your uncle was to repair to the Czar with the news that Lord Courtenay, having discovered his opponent’s identity, had not only retired from the combat, but was travelling post haste to Narva, intending to take ship for his own country. In fact, it is your uncle’s plan that you be kept here under my care while he arranges to have you shipped and carried off to England. And in so doing he thinks he is consulting your best interests. _My_ part of the plan,” added Pauline, with a mock-mournful air, “has broken down. Now that you are free how do you intend to act?” she added, a little nervously. “The Czar must learn that I have not played the coward. I shall go to St. Petersburg and somehow let him know that I am still in his capital, ready to meet him in duel, if he be so disposed.” Pauline sighed over Wilfrid’s romantic obstinacy. “The Czar will learn,” said she, with a rueful little smile, “that you were spirited away by Pauline de Vaucluse.” “No, Baroness, no. I will suppress your name. You shall remain hidden under the title of a—a—ahem! a misguided patriot.” “You are not going to set off for St. Petersburg to-night, I presume, seeing that it is now past ten o’clock?” “No, I’ll defer my journey till the morning.” Pauline sat in silence for a few moments, and then an odd light came into her eyes, and she smote her forehead with a pretty little gesture. “_Ciel!_ how stupid of me!” she exclaimed. “Strange, is it not, that ideas the most obvious never seem to strike one at the time they should.” “And what,” smiled Wilfrid, “is the obvious idea that you have overlooked?” “That I need not have taken the trouble to imprison you when a sentence, one short sentence, would extinguish in you all desire for this duel.” She spoke with a confidence such as half-disposed Wilfrid to believe her statement true. But though pressed as to her meaning, she refused just then to satisfy his curiosity. “I will explain in the morning. You have had gloom enough for one day. Let me not act the part of a kill-joy to-night.”