“Who told you anything about M. Auguste?” she demanded in hoarse tones. “What has he to do with me?”
“Nay, it is not you who ought to ask me that,” I returned. “You may be a believer in his conjuring tricks, for aught I know. He may be more to you than a comrade, or even a prophet—more to you than I.”
“Who told you that he was my comrade, as you call it?” the Princess insisted, refusing to be diverted from her point.
“No one,” I said quite truthfully. “I should be glad to know that he was only that. But it is natural for me to feel some jealousy of all your friends.”
The Princess appeared relieved by this admission. But this relief confirmed all my suspicions. I now felt certain that the medium was an important figure in the plot which I was trying to defeat. I saw, moreover, that however genuine my beautiful friend might be in her love for me and her desire to save my life, she had no intention of betraying the secrets of her fellow conspirators.
Her character presented an enigma almost impossible to solve. Perhaps it is not the part of a wise man ever to try to understand a woman. Her motives must always be mysterious, even to herself. It is sufficient if one can learn to forecast her actions, and even that is seldom possible.
“Then you refuse my help?” I asked reproachfully.
“You cannot help me,” was the answer. “At least, that is, unless you possess some power I have no idea of at present.”
It was an ingenious turning of the tables. Instead of my questioning the Princess, she was questioning me, in effect.