“I’ve heard that she is now engaged,” I observed, resolved upon a ruse. “Giraud, of the Belgian Embassy, told me the other day that she was to marry some German—I think he is—named Wolf. Do you know him?”
“Wolf!” ejaculated the Baronne, her fine eyes fixed upon me with a strange look, as though in a moment she had become paralysed by some sudden fear. The next instant, however, with a woman’s marvellous self-possession, she made shift to answer:
“No, the name is quite unfamiliar to me.”
“Why,” cried Sibyl suddenly, “that was the name of the dark-bearded man who was so charming to me at the de Chalencon’s the other night. Is he the same?”
“Yes,” I said. “His character, however, is none of the best. I would only warn you to have nothing whatever to do with him—that’s all.”
“He was awfully kind to me the other evening,” she protested.
“Well,” I replied earnestly, “but you and I are friends of old standing, and I consider that I have a right to give you warning when it seems to be necessary.”
“And is one actually needed regarding Rodolphe Wolf?” asked the Baronne, evidently much puzzled, for she undoubtedly knew him, even though she had declared her ignorance of his existence.
“Yes,” I said, “he is a person to be avoided. More, I cannot tell you.”