“Yes,” she answered reflectively. “Perhaps, in a little while, when I have made more money I shall leave here and return to London. One cannot live without money.”
“True,” I answered. “Yet life here must be terribly dull and monotonous after Vienna and Paris.”
“Ah!” she cried, with the slightest suspicion of a sigh. “All that I have forgotten long, long ago.”
Her eyes were downcast, and I thought I detected tears in them. I gazed at her, this woman who was known in nearly every capital in Europe as one of the most daring and enterprising adventuresses of the century, half-fearing that she might still refuse to disclose her secret.
Chapter Thirty Four.
Outcast.
She moved slightly, raised her cup to her lips with a coquettish air, and on setting it down her dark bright eyes again met mine with inquiring glance.
“Well,” she exclaimed. “Is it not strange that you, of all men, should be in Skerstymone?”