And now she knew that all that was false--false his sympathy, false his offers of friendship--his words were false, his hand-grasp false. Treachery lurked behind that kindly look in his eyes, and falsehood beneath his smile. "He was nothing better than a spy!" The sting of that thought hurt her more than she could have thought possible. She had so few real friends and this one had proved a sham. Had she been alone she would have given way to tears, but before Maurice or even her aunt she was ashamed of her grief, ashamed of her feelings and of her thoughts. There was a great deal yet that she wished to know, but somehow the words choked her when she wanted to ask further questions. Fortunately Mme. la Duchesse was taking Maurice thoroughly to task. She asked innumerable questions, and would not spare him the relation of a single detail. "Tell us all about it from the beginning, Maurice," she said. "Where did you first meet the rogue?" And Maurice--weary and ashamed--was forced to embark on a minute account of adventures that were lies from beginning to end: he had stumbled across the wayside hostelry on a lonely by-path: he had found it full of cut-throats: he had stalked and waylaid their chief in his own room, and forced him to give up the money by the weight of his fists. It was paltry and pitiable: nevertheless, St. Genis, as he warmed to his tale, lost the shame of it; only wrath remained with him: anger that he should be forced into this despicable rôle through the intrigues of a rival. In his heart he was already beginning to find innumerable excuses for his cowardice: and his rage and hatred grew against Clyffurde as Madame's more and more persistent questions taxed his imagination almost to exhaustion. When, after half an hour of this wearying cross-examination, Madame at last granted him a respite, he made a pretext of urgent business at M. le Comte d'Artois' headquarters and took his leave of the ladies. He waited in vain hope that the Duchesse's tact would induce her to leave him alone for a moment with Crystal. Madame stuck obstinately to her chair and was blind and deaf to every hint of appeal from him, whilst Crystal, who was singularly absorbed and had lent but a very indifferent ear to his narrative, made no attempt to detain him. She gave him her hand to kiss, just as Madame had done; it lay hot and moist in his grasp. "Crystal," he continued to murmur as his lips touched her fingers, "I love you . . . I worked for you . . . it is not my fault that I failed." She looked at him kindly and sympathetically through her tears, and gave his hand a gentle little pressure. "I am sure it was not your fault," she replied gently, "poor Maurice. . . ." It was not more than any kind friend would say under like circumstances, but to a lover every little word from the beloved has a significance of its own, every look from her has its hidden meaning. Somewhat satisfied and cheered Maurice now took his final leave: