But she shook her head, saying: “Am I not striving my utmost to assist her? Is it therefore to be supposed that I shall explain facts which she desires should remain secret? The object of your present visit is surely not to endeavour to entrap me into telling you facts which, for the present, will not bear the light? Rather let us come to some understanding whereby our interests may be mutual.”
“It was for that reason I have called,” he said, in a dry, serious tone. Her gaze met his, and he thought in that half-light he detected in her dark, brilliant eyes a keen look of suspicion.
“I am all attention,” she answered, pleasantly, moving slightly, so that she faced him.
“Well, mine is a curious errand,” he began, earnestly, bending towards her, his elbows on his knees. “There is no reason, as far as I’m aware, why, if you are really Liane’s friend, we should not be perfectly frank with one another. First, I must ask you one question—a strange one you will no doubt regard it. But it is necessary that I should receive an answer before I proceed. Did you ever live in Paris—and where?”
She knit her brows for an instant, as if questions regarding her past were entirely distasteful.
“Well, yes,” she answered, after some hesitation. “I once lived in Paris with my mother. We had rooms in the Rue Toullier.”
“Then there can be no mistake,” he exclaimed, quickly. “You are Mariette Lepage.”
“Of course I am,” she said, puzzled at the strangeness of his manner. “Why?”
“Because there is a curious circumstance which causes our interests to be mutual,” he answered, watching the flush of excitement upon her face as he spoke. “Briefly, my father, Sir John Stratfield, was somewhat eccentric, and because he knew I loved Liane, he left me penniless. He, however, added an extraordinary clause to his will, in which you are mentioned.” Then drawing from his breast-pocket a copy of the document, he glanced at it.
“I am mentioned?” she echoed, raising herself and regarding him open-mouthed.