Arthur smiled slowly, but it was not a pleasant smile.
"Ah!" he said, "I forgot. Lady Delahaye is an old friend of yours, isn't she?"
"Your insinuations are childish, Arthur," I answered. "Lady Delahaye is an old friend of the Archduchess's, and their interest in Isobel is identical. For many reasons I am going to know Isobel's history before I give her up to either of them."
"And who is going to tell it to you?" he asked.
"Feurgéres," I answered. "He sent for us at the theatre to-night. He is coming on here."
There was a sharp tapping at the door. I moved across the room to open it. Arthur threw his hat upon the table.
"I will wait!" he declared.
CHAPTER XIII
We all knew Isobel's history. It had taken barely twenty minutes to tell it, but they had been twenty minutes of tragedy. We were all, I think, in different ways affected. Monsieur Feurgéres alone sat back in his seat like a carved image, his face white and haggard, his deep-set eyes fixed upon vacancy. We felt that he had passed wholly away from the world of present things. He himself was lingering amongst the shadows of that wonderful past, upon which he had only a moment before dropped the curtain. He had told us to ask him questions, but I for my part felt that questions just then were a sacrilege. Arthur, however, seemed to feel nothing of this. It was he who took the lead.