"More than fair. I could not have asked this of you. In an hour I have learned the news of years. But will you not also tell me what is the news from Château Ramezay? Then, indeed, I could go home feeling I had done very much for my chief."
"Monsieur, I can not do so. You will not tell me that other news."
"Of what?"
"Of your nuptials!"
"Madam, I can not do so. But for you, much as I owe you, I would like to wring your neck. I would like to take your arms in my hands and crush them, until—"
"Until what?" Her face was strange. I saw a hand raised to her throat.
"Until you told me about Oregon!" said I.
I saw her arms move—just one instant—her body incline. She gazed at me steadily, somberly. Then her hands fell.
"Ah, God! how I hate you both!" she said; "you and her. You were married, after all! Yes, it can be, it can be! A woman may love one man—even though he could give her only a bed of husks! And a man may love a woman, too—one woman! I had not known."
I could only gaze at her, now more in perplexity than ever. Alike her character and her moods were beyond me. What she was or had been I could not guess; only, whatever she was, she was not ordinary, that was sure, and was to be classified under no ordinary rule. Woman or secret agent she was, and in one or other identity she could be my friend or my powerful enemy, could aid my country powerfully if she had the whim; or damage it irreparably if she had the desire. But—yes—as I studied her that keen, tense, vital moment, she was woman!