“You do me a great honour. Will you speak without my prompting?”
“Yes. I would prefer it. In England, a year ago, I had a little flirtation with Mr. Dundas—no more, though we liked and admired each other. We exchanged a few silly letters, and I forgot all about them until I fell in love with Raoul and promised to marry him—only a short time ago. Then I couldn’t bear to think that I had written these foolish letters, and that, perhaps, Mr. Dundas might have kept them. I wrote and asked if he had. He answered that he had every one, and valued them immensely, but if I wished, he would either burn all, or bring them to me, whichever I chose. I chose to have him bring them, and I told him that I’d meet him at the Élysée Palace Hotel on a certain evening, to receive the letters from him.”
“He came, as I said, under another name. Why was that, Mademoiselle, since there was nothing for him to be ashamed of?”
“He also is in love, and just engaged to be married to an American girl who lives with relations in London, in a very high position. He didn’t want the girl to know he was coming to Paris, because, it seems, there had been a little talk about him and me, which she had heard. And she didn’t like it.”
“I see. This gentleman started for Paris, I have learned, the first thing in the morning, the day after a ball at a house where he met the British Secretary for Foreign Affairs.”
“Perhaps. For I have enquired and found out that the girl—a Miss Forrest, is distantly connected with the British Foreign Secretary. She lives with her aunt, Lady Mountstuart, whose sister is married to that gentleman. And the Foreign Secretary is a cousin of Lord Mountstuart.”
“Ah, Miss Forrest!”
“You know of her already?”
“I have heard her name.”
(I guessed how: for she could not have seen Ivor Dundas in prison except through the Chief of Police; but I said nothing of that.)