"What could she gain--or you--by her knowing that I am that unfortunate, homeless waif, without kindred and without friends, Theresia Cabarrus--the beautiful Cabarrus!--once the fiancée of the great Tallien, now suspect of trafficking with her country's enemies in France . . . and suspect of being a suborned spy in England! . . . My God, where am I to go? What am I to do? Do not tell Lady Blakeney, milor! On my knees I entreat you, do not tell her! She will hate me--fear me--despise me! Oh, give me a chance to be happy! Give me--a chance--to be happy!" Again she had paused and placed her hand on his arm. Once more she was looking up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, her full red lips quivering with emotion. And he returned her appealing, pathetic glance for a moment or two in silence; then suddenly, without any warning, he threw back his head and laughed. "By Gad!" he exclaimed. "But you are a clever woman!" "Milor!" she protested, indignant. "Nay: you need have no fear, fair one! I am a lover of sport. I'll not betray you." She frowned, really puzzled this time. "I do not understand," she murmured. "Let us get back to _The Fisherman's Rest_," he retorted with characteristic irrelevance. "Shall we?" "Milor," she insisted, "will you explain?" "There is nothing to explain, dear lady. You have asked me--nay! challenged me--not to betray you to any one, not even to Lady Blakeney. Very well! I accept your challenge. That is all." "You will not tell any one--any one, mind you!--that Mme. de Fontenay and Theresia Cabarrus are one and the same?" "You have my word for that." She drew a scarce perceptible sigh of relief. "Very well then, milor," she rejoined. "Since I am allowed to go to London, we shall meet there, I hope." "Scarcely, dear lady," he replied, "since I go to France to-morrow." This time she gave a little gasp, quickly suppressed--for she hoped milor had not noticed. "You go to France to-morrow, milor?" she asked. "As I had the honour to tell you, I go to France to-morrow, and I leave you a free hand to come and go as you please." She chose not to notice the taunt; but suddenly, as if moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she said resolutely: "If you go, I shall go too." "I am sure you will, dear lady," he retorted with a smile. "So there really is no reason why we should linger here. Our mutual friend M. Chauvelin must be impatient to hear the result of this interview." She gave a cry of horror and indignation. "Oh! You--you still think that of _me?_" He stood there, smiling, looking down on her with that half-amused, lazy glance of his. He did not actually say anything, but she felt that she had her answer. With a moan of pain, like a child who has been badly hurt, she turned abruptly, and burying her face in her hands, she sobbed as if her heart would break. Sir Percy waited quietly for a moment or two, until the first paroxysm of grief had quieted down, then he said gently: