"Of course you did, dear lady," he rejoined with a smile. "If a woman once resisted the temptation of putting a shell-like ear to a keyhole, the world would lose many a cause for entertainment." "That letter, milor----" she broke in impatiently. "Which letter, Madame?" "That insulting letter to me . . . when you took Moncrif away. . . . You never wrote it?" "Did you really think that I did?" he retorted. "No. I ought to have guessed . . . the moment that I saw you in England. . . ." "And realised that I was not a cad--what?" "Oh, milor!" she protested. "But why--why did you not tell me before?" "It had escaped my memory. And if I remember rightly, you spent most of the time when I had the honour of walking with you, in giving me elaborate and interesting accounts of your difficulties, and I, in listening to them." "Oh!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I hate that man! I hate him!" "In truth, he is not a lovable personality. But, by your leave, I presume that you did not desire to speak with me so that we might discuss our friend Chauvelin's amiable qualities." "No, no, milor!" she rejoined quickly. "I called to you because----" Then she paused for a moment or two, as if to collect her thoughts. Her eager eyes strove to pierce the bloom that enveloped the figure of the bold adventurer. She could only see the dim outline of his powerful figure, the light from above striking on his smooth hair, the elegantly tied bow at the nape of his neck, the exquisite filmy lace at his throat and wrists. His head was slightly bent, one arm in a curve supported his chapeau-bras, his whole attitude was one befitting a salon rather than this dank hovel, where death was even now at his elbow; it was as cool and unperturbed as it had been on that May-day evening, in the hawthorn-scented lanes of Kent. "Milor," she said abruptly, "you told me once--you remember?--that you were what you English call a sportsman. Is that so?" "I hope always to remain that, dear lady," he replied with a smile. "Does that mean," she queried, with a pretty air of deference and hesitation, "does that mean a man who would under no circumstances harm a woman?" "I think so." "Not even if she--if she has sinned--transgressed against him?" "I don't quite understand, Madame," he rejoined simply. "And, time being short---- Are you perchance speaking of yourself?" "Yes. I have done you an injury, milor." "A very great one indeed," he assented gravely. "Could you," she pleaded, raising earnest, tear-filled eyes to his, "could you bring yourself to believe that I have been nothing but a miserable, innocent tool?" "So was the lady upstairs innocent, Madame," he broke in quietly. "I know," she retorted with a sigh. "I know. I would never dare to plead, as you must hate me so." He shrugged his shoulders with an air of carelessness. "Oh!" he said. "Does a man ever hate a pretty woman?" "He forgives her, milor," she entreated, "if he is a true sportsman."