"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of the salon.
With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away—and, swaying, stared wildly across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss standing there between the portières!
A low laugh rippled through the atelier—unmusically, because it held a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again.
"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a coup de théâtre," she said calmly—too calmly to be natural. She fixed her grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that it was you. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portières. From the hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the salon, thanks to the half open portières; and—mademoiselle, there, will perhaps understand this better than you—in spite of my anxiety for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?"
Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle Bliss was smiling—only it was a very strange smile. Why was she smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness.
"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then—"
"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the atelier, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain. And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon yourself to avenge"—her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were flashing dangerously—"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost ignorant of it, and—"
"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle—Myrna! You have no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul Valmain! I offered—no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols. Laparde would not hear of it—they would make too much noise."
"Ah—a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?"
"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out. "You know why! You know that it was because I loved you—that I love you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!"