“Wait—one moment! You are”—Denise broke off in agitation—“you are Yvonne?” she whispered.
The stranger sat down and unconcernedly began to tear up one of the sheets of paper littering the floor. “I am,” she answered quietly.
“And you gave the Vicomte de Nérac the secret despatch which you stole?”
“He took it from the English agent to whom I had given it.”
“Ah!” Again Denise had guessed the truth. “You once saved the Vicomte’s life?” she went on.
“I helped to do so.”
“Yet you are a traitress?”
“Yes, I am a traitress, and a traitress I should have continued to be if you and the Vicomte de Nérac had not stepped in to prevent me.”
The emotionless voice in which this confession was made had ceased to startle Denise, for she was scanning the girl’s face intently.
“Ah!” she cried with sudden conviction, “the Chevalier de St. Amant is your brother!”