“The Duchess showed it to me, and--I recognized it.” Alexia laughed. “Ah, now I know. I think I have guessed this mysterious piece of news. I suppose you are going to say that you have recognized this formidable ornament as belonging to me.” Manifestly he did not like the words being taken out of his mouth, but he could only respond, with a slight bow of assent, “You have guessed it, Countess.” She laughed again. “My dear Mr. Playford, what an absurd idea!” Any one would have thought from her manner and his that she had him discomfited; but Aubrey Playford was not the man to be so easily beaten off. “Hardly absurd, Countess.” That was all he could say, for the door opened and tea was brought in. “Is the poor Duke very much upset?” Alexia enquired, giving the necessary turn to the conversation while the men were in the room. Playford gave an appropriately humorous answer as to the ducal state of mind, all the while eyeing the girl searchingly, and in spite of himself, inclined to wonder whether, after all, he might not have made a mistake. When they were alone once more, their talk did not for the moment revert to its former and more dangerous channel. Perhaps both were glad of an armistice after the first trial of strength, of a short breathing space now that the methods of attack and defence were declared. Alexia poured out the two cups of tea, and did not raise her eyes from the table until Playford had taken his cup. Then she leaned back in her chair and faced him boldly as ever. “You come here to tell me that?” His eyes were on her, alert as a fencer’s. “Could I do otherwise?” “Surely,” she returned, with something like contempt. “Even if it were true.” “I don’t think I have made a mistake, Countess.” He spoke slowly with a staccato enunciation of the words. “You have, Mr. Playford.” The cool incisiveness of her tone stung him. “How?” he asked, with an ugly look of fight in his malicious eyes. She was ready with her answer. “To begin with, in coming here at all; to a house, I mean, where you might know you would not be welcome.” “Obviously,” he retorted with a smile, “as the bearer of unwelcome news.” “Which, if true, would be no news.” The hit was palpable, but he gave no sign that he felt it. “I came to warn you,” he said, still watching her darkly. “It was very kind of you,” she returned, with a touch of contemptuous irony, “and quite unnecessary.” Manifestly the time for fencing was past. Playford rose, ostensibly to put down his cup, but he remained standing over her. “Countess,” he began, in a tone that had a deeper vibration in it, “Alexia----” She raised her head imperiously. “Mr. Playford, I have forbidden you to address me in that manner.” “I know,” he assented. “And you have forbidden me your house.” She gave a little scornful nod of agreement. “For no adequate reason,” he protested. “My presumption, as no doubt you would call it----” “Persecution,” she corrected.