“What truth?” inquired Hugh quickly.
“Well—that she is a marque de ce.”
“A marque de ce—what is that?” asked Hugh eagerly.
“Ah! non, m’sieur. I must not tell you anything against her. You are her friend.”
“But I am endeavouring to find out something about her. To me she is a mystery.”
“No doubt. She is to everybody.”
“What did you mean by that expression?” he demanded. “Do tell me. I am very anxious to know your opinion of her, and something about her. I have a very earnest motive in trying to discover who and what she really is.”
“If I told you I should offend Il Passero,” replied the girl simply. “It is evident that he wishes you should remain in ignorance.”
“But surely, you can tell me in confidence? I will divulge nothing.”
“No,” answered the girl, whose face he could not see in the shadow. “I am sorry, M’sieur Brown”—she had not been told his Christian name—“but I am not permitted to tell you anything concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”