Her eyes and arms besought him, but it was surely a changed man—this. There was none of the suaveness, the delicate responsiveness of her late host at Porchester House. The man who faced her now possessed the features of a sphinx. There was not even pity in his face.
“You will not tell my husband?” she gasped.
“Your husband already knows, Madame,” was the quiet reply. “Only a few hours ago I proved to him whence had come the leakage of so many of our secrets lately.”
She swayed upon her feet.
“He will never forgive me,” she cried.
“There are others,” De Grost declared, “who forgive more rarely, even, than husbands.”
A sudden illuminating flash of horror told her the truth. She closed her eyes and tried to run from the room.
“I will not be told,” she screamed. “I will not hear. I do not know who you are. I will live a little longer.”
“Madame,” De Grost said, “the Double-Four wages no war with women, save with spies only. The spy has no sex. For the sake of your family, permit me to send you back to your husband’s house.”
That night, two receptions and a dinner party were postponed. All London was sympathizing with Monsieur de Lamborne, and a great many women swore never again to take a sleeping draught. Madame de Lamborne lay dead behind the shelter of those drawn blinds, and by her side an empty phial.