“Milord!” she cried, “his hired bravo!” “Well,” said Ned, “you must admit I have some excuse for thinking it.” “So!” she answered, recovering herself with a long-drawn breath. “It is true.” She smiled upon him. “Had I chalk-marked you at the first, _mon cher_, I could not have hit you nearer where I intended. When I desire to keel, I keel. When I weesh for to place one _hors-de-combat--pour citer un exemple_--” she touched his shoulder delicately with her finger-tips. “You intended to put me on the shelf?” said Ned, surprised. She nodded. “On my uncle’s behalf?” “Ah!” she cried, “you weesh too many answer. I will tell you it was all arrange by me. It was only when the old man smell blood he get beside of himself. You come in my way: I must remove you. That is it.” “But I have never seen you in my life till three days ago, madame!” “Nor I, you. What then?” Ned lay back, thinking things over; and presently he talked aloud:-- “My lord comes to Dover, _en route_ for Paris. He is accompanied by a friend--the Chevalier d’Eon. This chevalier is a diplomatist, and something more. He--she--has served--possibly does serve--a royal master. At this juncture it is to be conceived that her talents for _espionnage_ are being urgently summoned to exercise themselves.” He paused a moment, glancing askew at his companion. She did not look at nor answer him, but her face expressed some curious concern. A little covert smile twitched his mouth as he continued:-- “There are whispers (I have heard them and of them) in more than one city of the world, that a certain notable Prime Minister gives his secret endorsement to the revolutionary propaganda of the Palais Royal. Would it not be a daring thing on the part of a spy, and a thing grateful to his employers, to endeavour to prove this of the exalted Englishman? But the Englishman is self-contained--almost inaccessible. If he is to be approached, it must be with an elaborate circumspection--by starting, say, the process of under-mining so far from official centres as the very suburban quarters where he takes his little relaxation during the Parliamentary recesses.” Pausing, consciously, in his abstract review (murmured, as if he were seeking to convince himself), Ned was aware that the chevalier had leaned herself back against the wall at the bedhead, and was softly caressing the monkey. A tight little smile was on her lips; she caught his glance and nodded to him. “_C’est bien, cela_,” she whispered. He went on, echoing her:--