“So Evelyn told me.” Marian did not think it necessary to add that Evelyn had awakened her from her brief nap after her all night vigil in Mrs. Ward’s room, and poured out her story of love, misunderstanding and lost letters with such pathos that Marian had promptly championed her cause with every impulse of her loyal nature. Having met Captain La Montagne earlier in the summer she had then and there vowed to see him before the twenty-four hours were over, and if, as she had begun to suspect, she found that peculiar methods were being used to estrange the lovers, she decided to try and aid them.
“Captain,” she commenced, “did you see much of Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”
“No.” The Frenchman tempered the brief answer with an explanation. “Mr. Burnham is some years older and we are not what you might call”—he paused, searching for a word—“in sympathy.”
“I see.” Marian stared thoughtfully at a passing touring car. “It must have been fully five years ago, but was there not some story about Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”
There was a pause, and when he spoke, the Frenchman confined himself to the word: “Yes.”
Marian’s eyes lighted. “My memory sometimes plays me tricks,” she said. “What were the details?”
La Montagne did not answer at once. “It was not so much,” he began. “Count André de Sartiges and Mr. Burnham had a dispute at Longchamps, and the next afternoon André slapped Mr. Burnham’s face in the club.”
“And what happened then?” persisted Marian as he stopped.
“Nothing,” La Montagne shrugged his shoulders. “In France it meant a duel; but as Mr. Burnham was an American who did not believe in dueling, the affair was soon forgotten.”
“All the same Mr. Burnham had to leave Paris,” retorted Marian, “and Mr. Burnham is a man who harbors grievances. I fear, Captain, that he does not favor your engagement to Evelyn.”