"I think I understand, M. de St. Genis."
"And . . . what do you say?" queried the other excitedly.
"Let me make the situation clear first, as I understand it, Monsieur," continued Bobby drily. "You are—and I mistake not—suggesting at the present moment that I should hand over the twenty-five millions to you, in order that you should take them yourself to the King in Paris, and by this act obtain not only favours from him, but probably a goodly share of the money, which you—presumably—will have forced some unknown highwayman to give up to you. Is that it?"
"It was not money for myself I thought of, Sir," murmured St. Genis somewhat shamefacedly.
"No, no, of course not," rejoined Clyffurde with a tone of sarcasm quite foreign to his usual easy-going good-nature. "You were thinking of the King's favours, and of a future of distinction and glory."
"I was thinking chiefly of Crystal, Sir," said the other haughtily.
"Quite so. You were thinking of winning Mlle. Crystal by a . . . a subterfuge."
"An innocent one, Sir, you will admit. I should not be robbing you in any way. And remember that it is only Crystal's hand that is denied me: her love I have already won."
A look of pain—quickly suppressed and easily hidden from the other's self-absorbed gaze—crossed the Englishman's earnest face.
"I do remember that, Monsieur," he said, "else I certainly would never lend a hand in the . . . subterfuge."