"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Paul is so queer in these things. He will not have me talk of it. He prefers that we are taken for French people. Indeed," she went on, "it is not I who desire to think too much of Russia. It is not a year since my father was killed in the riots, and two of my brothers were sent to Siberia." Bernadine was deeply interested. "They were amongst the revolutionaries?" She nodded. "Yes," she answered. "And your husband?" "He, too, was with them in sympathy. Secretly, too, I believe that he worked amongst them; only he had to be careful. You see, his position at the college made it difficult." Bernadine looked into the woman's eyes, and he knew then that she was speaking the truth. This man was indeed a great master; he had kept her in ignorance. "Always," Bernadine said, a few minutes later, as he passed her tea, "I read with the deepest interest of the people's movement in Russia. Tell me what became eventually of their great leader--the wonderful Father Paul." She set down her cup untasted, and her blue eyes flashed with a fire which turned them almost to the colour of steel. "Wonderful, indeed!" she exclaimed. "Wonderful Judas! It was he who wrecked the cause. It was he who sold the lives and liberty of all of us for gold." "I heard a rumour of that," Bernadine remarked, "but I never believed it." "It was true," she declared passionately. "And where is he now?" Bernadine asked. "Dead!" she answered fiercely. "Torn to pieces, we believe, one night in a house near Moscow. May it be so!" She was silent for a moment, as though engaged in prayer. Bernadine spoke no more of these things. He talked to her kindly, keeping up always his rôle of respectful, but hopeful, admirer. "You will come again soon?" he begged, when at last she insisted upon going. She hesitated. "It is so difficult," she murmured. "If my husband knew----" Bernadine laughed and touched her fingers caressingly. "Need one tell him?" he whispered. "You see, I trust you. I pray that you will come." * * * * * Bernadine was a man rarely moved towards emotion of any sort; yet even he was conscious of a certain sense of excitement as he stood looking out upon the Embankment from the windows of Paul Hagon's sitting-room a few days later. Madame was sitting on the settee. It was for her answer to a question that he waited. "Monsieur," she said at last, turning slowly towards him, "it must be 'No.' Indeed I am sorry, for you have been very charming to me, and without you I should have been dull. But to come to your rooms and dine alone to-night, it is impossible." "Your husband cannot return before the morning," Bernadine reminded her. "It makes no difference," she answered. "Paul is sometimes fierce and rough, but he is generous, and all his life he has worshipped me. He behaves strangely at times, but I know that he cares--all the time more, perhaps, than I deserve."