“Good. What was that reply, chief?”
“The duke repeated it to a friend of his before he shot himself after her refusal. ‘She told me,’ he said to his friend, ‘that there is only one name in all the world which she will ever consent to bear, and that as there is small chance of that name ever being offered to her is not likely that she would ever marry.’ Now you have it, Carter. That is the cut and dried reason. Cannot you read between the words all that they imply?”
“Yes; I think so. Still, I would like to have your version, chief.”
“You shall, then.”
“Thank you.”
“I told you a moment ago that while we know a great deal about her, we know, in fact, a very little. When I made that remark I meant that we know absolutely nothing concerning her history before she arrived at womanhood. In other words, we know everything about her, for the past eight years—and we know absolutely nothing concerning her before that time. We do not know where she came from or what her country is. Have you got that in your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now refer again to what she told the duke when he asked her to be his wife.”
“I do.”
“There can be only one explanation of that expression. It meant, if it meant anything at all, that once, before we knew anything about her, she loved a man who was the cause, directly or indirectly, of her entering upon a career that brought her to the notice of the police. It meant that the man is still alive, and that he might yet offer her his name, and that if he did so, she would accept it; and that if he failed to do so, she would never accept any other name. I know that I am a romantic Frenchman, but that is the way I read that answer she made to the Duc de Luvois.”