Lady Helen consoled me with the best cigar I have ever received at the hands of a woman.
She lit a cigarette for herself and curled up on a pile of cushions.
"That man Navarro is a rapacious rascal," she observed presently. "He wouldn't take a penny less than a hundred to say what he did say to Dixon. But I did not tell him to call me beautiful," she added.
"I am glad to be certain that the fellow is a rascal," I muttered half underbreath. But she heard me.
"Surely you knew. His ravings did not take you in," she cried scornfully. "Everyone knows he simply loathes Sir Robert Ottley. He used to be the little old millionaire's tin god. Sir Robert hardly dared to breathe without consulting his oracle. And they say the man bled him of thousands. No wonder he went mad to find that Sir Robert had escaped his influence. Ever since then he has been saying the most awful things. Lots of people believe them, I know, but I never thought you would."
"I don't." I smiled. I could smile now, for I felt wonderfully relieved. "But tell me, Lady Helen, just why you employed him to say that to your husband?"
She puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Dixon is superstitious at heart," she replied. "He will not want to, but he will end by believing what Navarro told him."
"What! that you care for him despising you?"
"Silly!" she cried. "No—not that I care for him—but for another man despising me—the man for whom I care. Have you forgotten Navarro's words?"
"But why on earth deceive your husband?"