"How fat he is, and what sleek hair," marvelled Cosmo. "And what a solemn manner. No wonder I did not recognize him at once. He showed me into your father's room, you know. He looks a Special Envoy's confidential man all over. And to think that he is your household spy! I wonder at your patience." "Perhaps if I had anything to conceal I would have had less patience with the spy," she said, equably. "I believe that when we lived in Paris he wrote every week to M. de Montevesso, because, you know, he can write quite well. I wonder what he found to write about. Lists of names, I suppose. Or perhaps his own views of the people who called with bits of overheard conversations." "It's incredible," murmured Cosmo. "It's fantastic. What contempt he must have for your husband." "The most remarkable thing," said Madame de Montevesso, "is that I am convinced that he doesn't write any lies." "Yes," said Cosmo, "I assume that. And do you mean that the Count is paying him every week for that sort of thing. It's an ugly farce." "Don't you think," said the Countess, "that something serious may come of it some day?" Cosmo made a hopeless gesture. "The man you married is mad," he said with intense conviction. "There have been times when I felt as if I were mad myself," murmured Madame de Montevesso. "Take up your hat," she added quickly. She had heard footsteps outside the door. A moment after, Count Helion came in and fixed his black glance on his wife and Cosmo. He did not open his lips and remained ominously by the door for a time. The strain of the silence was made sinister by the stiff bearing of the man, the immobility of the carven brown face, crossed by the inky-black moustache in harsh contrast with the powdered head. He might have been a sergeant come at the stroke of the hour to tell those two people that the firing squad was waiting for them outside the door. Madame de Montevesso broke the dumb spell. "I did my best to entertain Mr. Latham, but we had given you up. He was just going." She glanced serenely at Cosmo, whom the sweetness of her tone, her easy self-possession before that barrack-room figure, stung to the heart. At that moment no words could have expressed the intensity of his hatred for the Count of Montevesso, at whom he was looking with a smile of the utmost banality. The latter moved forward stiffly. "Your father hopes you will see him for a moment presently," he said to his wife. "He has not gone to bed yet." "Then I will go to him at once." Madame de Montevesso extended her hand to Cosmo, who raised the tips of her fingers to his lips ceremoniously.