"Your husband?" he asked, with an ironical lifting of the eyebrows. "What makes you think I've been speaking of him?"
"The man whom you call your friend is the Marquis de Bienville—"
"He didn't mention your name; but I see you're able to tell me his. It's what I was afraid of. I've repeated only a very little of what he said; but since you recognize its truth already, it isn't necessary to continue."
She passed her hand over her forehead, with the gesture of one trying desperately to see aright.
"I must ask you to tell me plainly: Was I the—the unscrupulous woman into whose toils Monsieur de Bienville fell?"
"He didn't say so."
"Then why—why have you spoken of this to me?"
"Because what I heard from him fitted in so exactly with what I had heard from you that it made an entire story. It was like the two parts of a puzzle. The one without the other is incomplete and perplexing; but having both, you can see the perfect whole. I will be frank enough to tell you that many of your sayings were dark to me until I had his to lend them light."
"Would it be of any use to say that what he told you wasn't true?"
"I don't know that it would be of any use to say it, unless it could be proved."