"How could you do it?" I demanded. "Yet that is no more strange. How did you do it?"
"At the door, that first night. I was mad then over the wrong done to what little womanhood I could claim for my own. I hated Yturrio. I hated Pakenham. They had both insulted me. I hated every man. I had seen nothing but the bitter and desperate side of life—I was eager to take revenge even upon the innocent ones of this world, seeing that I had suffered so much. I had an old grudge against women, against women, I say—against women!"
She buried her face in her hands. I saw her eyes no more till Threlka came and lifted her head, offering her a cup of drink, and so standing patiently until again she had dismissal.
"But still it is all a puzzle to me, Madam," I began. "I do not understand."
"Well, when you stood at the door, my little shoe in your pocket, when you kissed my hand that first night, when you told me what you would do did you love a woman—when I saw something new in life I had not seen—why, then, in the devil's resolution that no woman in the world should be happy if I could help it, I slipped in the body of the slipper a little line or so that I had written when you did not see, when I was in the other room. 'Twas that took the place of Van Zandt's message, after all! Monsieur, it was fate. Van Zandt's letter, without plan, fell out on my table. Your note, sent by plan, remained in the shoe!"
"And what did it say? Tell me at once."
"Very little. Yet enough fora woman who loved and who expected. Only this: 'In spite of that other woman, come to me still. Who can teach yon love of woman as can I? Helena.' I think it was some such words as those."
I looked at her in silence.
"You did not see that note?" she demanded. "After all, at first I meant it only for you. I wanted to see you again. I did not want to lose you. Ah, God! I was so lonely, so—so—I can not say. But you did not find my message?"
I shook my head. "No," I said, "I did not look in the slipper. I do not think my friend did."