"Well, what of it?" demanded Vernon, sharply, wheeling around. "What is it you mean to insinuate?"
"My dear sir," answered Collins, suavely, "I insinuate nothing. I was merely remarking upon the coincidence. If I did not happen to know all the circumstances, I might have been led to suggest that, as only one Miss Rushford is devoted to you—"
Vernon sprang to his feet with such wrath in his face that Collins stopped abruptly.
"It was well you stopped," said Vernon, savagely. "Another word, and by heaven—"
"Don't be a fool!" Collins broke in. "I'm not afraid of you nor your threats. This forgery, of course, is the work of that French spy—"
A servant tapped at the door and handed in a card.
Collins took it, glanced at it, and looked up with a little smile of satisfaction.
"It's Tellier," he said. "I was expecting him; he was certain to come to us. Leave him to me," and he went out, closing the door behind him.
Monsieur Tellier was even more effulgent than usual. There was upon his face a smile of supreme self-satisfaction. He had reason to believe that he had achieved a good stroke, and he was resolved to make the most of it. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions—one vision in particular which included within the same circumference himself and a certain frail fairy of the Robinière who had always regarded him with disdain. Now all that was to be changed! So he greeted Collins with a self-assurance and aplomb quite removed from his ordinary manner.
Collins confronted him with the card still between his fingers, and returned his greeting with the utmost coldness.