An hour later. Lady Jean sits alone in her boudoir. Her guests have all gone. A flush of excitement burns on her cheek, her eyes look triumphant. "Victory at last!" she murmurs to herself. "When she hears he is dead, and has met his death through my instrumentality, I think she will know that I too can avenge insult. I have taken her husband and her lover from her. I said my hour would come. It has come." There is a stir, a noise of footsteps without. The door is thrust hurriedly open, and Count Karolyski comes in. Involuntarily Lady Jean rises. She is annoyed and troubled, and a little afraid. "Monsieur, you know I do not receive at this hour." "So your people told me, but my business pleads an excuse. I will not detain you long, madame. I have come to say I will spare your--lover--on one condition." "I do not understand you," falters Lady Jean, turning very pale. He smiles his cold and evil smile. "No? Well, I will put it more plainly. I will retract my words. This duel shall not take place if you will be my wife." She turns on him, angry and amazed. "Monsieur, you do me much honour. But what I have refused to love, I will scarcely yield to intimidation!" He draws his breath sharply. "Stay; listen to me. Take heed before you refuse. I have told you I have scoffed at love all my life till you taught me to recant my error. A man at my age does not love lightly, nor is he easily turned from his purpose. To win you I would do anything--to lose you drives me desperate. If you refuse my prayer to-night, your boy-lover shall never see your face again. I swear it, and my oath is no less fatal than my hand can be." She turns aside; there is a smile of triumph on her lips. Has she fooled him so well that he actually believes Keith Athelstone is his rival? As she stands there, silent and thoughtful, a servant knocks at the door and enters with a telegram. She hastily seizes it and reads the contents, and all the blood seems to forsake her face. Trembling, she sinks into a chair. "If all should be lost even now?" she thinks, and her eyes turn in momentary appeal to the stern. cold face of the Count. "I--I will think of what you have said," she falters. "But, believe me, you are wrong when you think Keith Athelstone is anything to me. He is not; he never will be. As for his life I would not spare it if I could." "What?" he cries, amazed. "He--he has insulted me," stammers Lady Jean. "I cannot tell you--I cannot explain; only if you love me you will avenge me--not by his death, that I would not say .... I wish you to wound him, and in such a manner that the issue may be fatal--or otherwise--but in any case that it may be uncertain enough to allow of a messenger being sent to England to--a--a friend of his. Do you understand?" "That I am to be a tool for you? Perfectly, madame. And my reward?"