"Had she a husband when you knew her?" she persisted.
"Part of the time." I was a bit uncomfortable.
"And the man, yonder, is not he?"
"No," said I.
She gave me a sidelong glance. "And her name?" she asked.
"It used to be Madeline Spencer."
"You showed excellent taste, Armand--both in her looks and name."
There was something of sarcasm in the tone.
"Don't be unjust, sweetheart," I said. "She never was anything to me."
"Are you quite sure?".
"On my honor."
She gave a little sigh of relief. "I am glad, dear; I would not want
her for a rival. She is much too beautiful to be forgotten easily."
"The beauty is only external. She is ugly in heart," I said. "I
wonder what brings her to Dornlitz?"
"The man beside her, doubtless," said Dehra.
"Then he's spending money on her like water--or she has some game
afoot," I exclaimed.
"You paint her very dark, dear."
"Listen," I said. "She was the wife of Colonel Spencer of the American
Army. He married her, one summer, in Paris, where he had gone to meet
her upon her graduation from a convent school. She was his ward--the
child of the officer who had been his room-mate at the Point. Within
two years Colonel Spencer was dead--broken-hearted; a wealthy
Lieutenant of his regiment had been cashiered and had shot himself
after she had plucked him clean. Since then, she has lived in the odor
of eminent respectability; yet, as I know, always waiting for a
victim--and always having one. Money is her God."
"And, yet, there seems to be nothing in her appearance to suggest such
viciousness," said Dehra.
"Nothing," I said; "and, hence, her danger and her power."
"You knew her when she was Colonel Spencer's wife?"
"I met her at the Post where he commanded--and, later, I saw her in
Washington and New York. She had been in Pittsburgh for several months
before I left--angling for some of the _nouveaux riches_, I fancy.
There was plenty of gossip of her in the Clubs; though I, alone, I
think, know her true history."
"And you did not warn anyone of her?"
"So long as she let my friends alone I cared not what pigeon she
plucked. And the very fact that she knew I was in Pittsburgh, was
enough to make her shy of anyone I would likely care for."
Dehra laughed lightly. "Maybe you were a little bit afraid of her,
yourself," she said.
"Maybe I was," I admitted; "for she has a fascination almost
irresistible--when she choose to exert it."
Dehra looked at me steadily.