“I really don’t see by what right you submit me to this cross-examination upon affairs which are only my own,” I responded in a hard voice, although I was puzzled to determine the identity of this masked man. “Marriage with a millionaire is a temptation which few women can resist,” he said philosophically in a voice undisturbed by my hard retort. “Temptations are the crises which test the strength of one’s character. Whether a woman stands or falls at these crises depends very largely on what she is before the testing comes.” “And, pray, what concern have you in my intentions or actions?” I demanded. “You will discover that in due time,” he continued. “I know that to the world you, like your companion, Ulrica Yorke, pretend to be a woman who prefers her freedom and has no thought of love. Yet you are only acting the part of the free woman. At heart you love as intensely and hate as fiercely as all the others. Is not that so?” “You speak remarkably plain, as though you were well acquainted with my private affairs,” I remarked resentfully. “I only say what I know to be the truth,” he replied. “You, Carmela Rosselli, are not heartless, like that emotionless woman who is your friend. The truth is that you love--you still love--Ernest Cameron.” I rose in quick indignation. “I refuse to hear you further, m’sieur,” I cried. “Kindly let me pass.” His hand was on the door of the box, and he kept it there, notwithstanding my words. “No,” he said quite coolly. “You must hear me--indeed, you shall hear me!” “I have heard you,” I answered. “You have said sufficient.” “I have not concluded,” he replied. “When I have done so you will, I think, only be anxious for me to proceed.” And he added quite calmly: “If you will kindly be seated so as not to attract attention I will go on.” I sank back into my seat without further effort to arrest his words. The adventure was most extraordinary, and certainly his grotesque appearance held me puzzled. “Here in Nice, not long ago,” he continued, “you met a man who believed himself in love with you, yet a few nights later he was foully murdered in your sitting-room at the hotel.” “Reginald Thorne,” I said quickly in a strained voice, for the memory of that distressing event was very painful. “Yes, Reginald Thorne,” he repeated in a low, hoarse voice. “You knew him?” I asked. “Yes, I knew him,” was his response in a deep, strange tone. “It is to speak of him that I have sought you to-night.” “If you are so well aware of who I am, and of all my movements, you might surely have called upon me,” I remarked dubiously. “Ah! no. That would have been impossible; none must know that we have met.” “Why?” “Because there are reasons--very strong reasons--why our meeting should be kept secret,” the voice responded, the pair of sharp black eyes peering forth mysteriously from the two holes in the owl’s sphinx-like face. “We are surrounded by spies. Here, in France, they have reduced espionage to a fine art.”