"Don't be unjust, sweetheart," I said. "She never was anything to me."
"Are you quite sure?".
"On my honor."
She gave a little sigh of relief. "I am glad, dear; I would not want her for a rival. She is much too beautiful to be forgotten easily."
"The beauty is only external. She is ugly in heart," I said. "I wonder what brings her to Dornlitz?"
"The man beside her, doubtless," said Dehra.
"Then he's spending money on her like water—or she has some game afoot," I exclaimed.
"You paint her very dark, dear."
"Listen," I said. "She was the wife of Colonel Spencer of the American Army. He married her, one summer, in Paris, where he had gone to meet her upon her graduation from a convent school. She was his ward—the child of the officer who had been his room-mate at the Point. Within two years Colonel Spencer was dead—broken-hearted; a wealthy Lieutenant of his regiment had been cashiered and had shot himself after she had plucked him clean. Since then, she has lived in the odor of eminent respectability; yet, as I know, always waiting for a victim—and always having one. Money is her God."
"And, yet, there seems to be nothing in her appearance to suggest such viciousness," said Dehra.