"In truth, he is not a lovable personality. But, by your leave, I presume that you did not desire to speak with me so that we might discuss our friend Chauvelin's amiable qualities."
"No, no, milor!" she rejoined quickly. "I called to you because——"
Then she paused for a moment or two, as if to collect her thoughts. Her eager eyes strove to pierce the bloom that enveloped the figure of the bold adventurer. She could only see the dim outline of his powerful figure, the light from above striking on his smooth hair, the elegantly tied bow at the nape of his neck, the exquisite filmy lace at his throat and wrists. His head was slightly bent, one arm in a curve supported his chapeau-bras, his whole attitude was one befitting a salon rather than this dank hovel, where death was even now at his elbow; it was as cool and unperturbed as it had been on that May-day evening, in the hawthorn-scented lanes of Kent.
"Milor," she said abruptly, "you told me once—you remember?—that you were what you English call a sportsman. Is that so?"
"I hope always to remain that, dear lady," he replied with a smile.
"Does that mean," she queried, with a pretty air of deference and hesitation, "does that mean a man who would under no circumstances harm a woman?"
"I think so."
"Not even if she—if she has sinned—transgressed against him?"
"I don't quite understand, Madame," he rejoined simply. "And, time being short—— Are you perchance speaking of yourself?"
"Yes. I have done you an injury, milor."