"You have no private affairs," Peter declared sternly. "They are the affairs of a nation."
She glanced at him with a little shiver. From that moment he felt that he was gaining ground. She looked around the room. It was well filled, but in their corner they were almost unobserved.
"How much do you know?" she asked in a low tone which shook with passion.
Peter smiled enigmatically.
"Perhaps more even than you, Duchesse," he replied. "I should like to be your friend. You need one—you know that."
She rose abruptly to her feet.
"For to-night it is enough," she declared, wrapping her fur cloak around her. "You may talk to me to-morrow, Baron. I must think. If you desire really to be my friend there is, perhaps, one service which I may require of you. But to-night, no!"
Peter stood aside and allowed her to step past him. He was perfectly content with the progress he had made. Her farewell salute was by no means ungracious. As soon as she was out of sight he returned to the couch where she had been sitting. She had taken away the marconigrams, but she had left upon the floor several copies of the New York Herald. He took them up and read them carefully through. The last one he found particularly interesting, so much so that he folded it up, placed it in his coat pocket, and went off to look for Sogrange, whom he found at last in the saloon, watching a noisy game of "Up, Jenkins!" Peter sank upon the cushioned seat by his side.
"You were right," he remarked. "Bernadine has been busy."
Sogrange smiled.