“Keep it,” she said. “I’ve several more; he says the same thing every week—oh, that about the ‘decent appearance’ is new; it’s been rent and food before. Otherwise it’s the same as usual.” I looked at the date of the letter; it had been written three days before. “When did you last send him money?” “The day before yesterday, if you want to know.” Yes, I had dined on it. And Arsenio had sent half of it to Lucinda; so he had told me, at least. And the rest he was keeping, in order to show Godfrey Frost the working of his system. “I was with him when he got it.” “You were with him? When? Where?” she asked quickly. I told of my afternoon with Monkey Valdez; surely he had now doubly, trebly earned the name! She listened with every sign of satisfaction and amusement. “You didn’t see his wife? She was out at her work, I suppose?” “He’s living in a single room. There was no sign of her, and the—er—furniture did not suggest——” “Really, Julius, I’m not interested in their domestic arrangements,” said Lady Dundrannan. “And you left him at Monte Carlo?” I assented; but I kept Godfrey’s secret. It was not my affair to meddle in that; the more so inasmuch as his meeting with Arsenio had not been his fault at all, but my own. To give him away would be unpardonable in me. Nor did I tell her that Arsenio had at least professed to send half the money to Lucinda; I was not convinced that he had really done it; and—well, I thought that she was triumphant enough already. I folded Arsenio’s letter and put it in my pocket, with no clear idea of what I meant to do with it, but with just a feeling that it might give me a useful hold on a slippery customer. Then I looked up at Nina again; she had the gift of repose, of standing or sitting still, without fidgets. She stood quite still now; but her exultant smile had vanished; her face was troubled and fretful again. “Of course I’ve told you this in confidence,” she said, without looking at me. “I’ve not bothered Waldo with it, and I shan’t until he’s stronger, at all events.” “I quite understand. But I’m not in the least convinced.” Then she turned quickly towards me. “The letter speaks for itself—or do you think I’ve forged it?” “The letter speaks for itself, and it convicts Arsenio Valdez. But there’s nothing to show that Lucinda knows where the money comes from. He probably tells her that he earns it, or wins it, and then lies to you about it.” “Why should he lie to me about it?” “He thinks that you’d be more likely to send it for her than for him, I suppose. At any rate, I’m convinced that she would rather starve than knowingly take money from you.” “Why?” I retorted her own phrase on her. “Because of Auld Lang Syne, Nina.” “You don’t know much about that,” she remarked sharply. “Yes, a good deal. Some you’ve told me yourself. Some Lucinda has told me. I met her down here—not at Mentone, but on the Riviera,—about three years ago.” “What was she doing then?”