More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.

“So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?”

“I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know.”

“That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no.” Her beautiful lithe body quivered. “Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your brain. And more than an accident.”

“I suppose,” said Derek contemptuously, “that it was this conversation that you repeated to the Comte de la Roche.”

Mirelle laughed.