‘Of whose possession Mr. Atlee is now asserting himself?’ said she quietly.
He grew crimson at a sarcasm whose impassiveness made it all the more cutting.
‘My mission was in this wise, mademoiselle,’ said he, with a forced calm in his manner. ‘I was to learn from Mademoiselle Kostalergi if she should desire to communicate with Mr. Walpole touching certain family interests in which his counsels might be of use; and in this event, I was to place at her disposal an address by which her letters should reach him.’
‘No, sir,’ said she quietly, ‘you have totally mistaken any instructions that were given you. Mr. Walpole never pretended that I had written or was likely to write to him; he never said that he was in any way concerned in family questions that pertained to me; least of all did he presume to suppose that if I had occasion to address him by letter, I should do so under cover to another.’
‘You discredit my character of envoy, then?’ said he, smiling easily.
‘Totally and completely, Mr. Atlee; and I only wait for you yourself to admit that I am right, to hold out my hand to you and say let us be friends.’
‘I’d perjure myself twice at such a price. Now for the hand.’
‘Not so fast—first the confession,’ said she, with a faint smile.
‘Well, on my honour,’ cried he seriously, ‘he told me he hoped you might write to him. I did not clearly understand about what, but it pointed to some matter in which a family interest was mixed up, and that you might like your communication to have the reserve of secrecy.’
‘All this is but a modified version of what you were to disavow.’