Isabelle Fitzgerald stood in a wooded recess of the park, beside a young sapling; the one no more fair and tall and glorious with the joy of living than the other. Kent-Lauriston was beside her, hat in hand, with just the trace of a cynical smile about his parted lips; but serious enough with it all, well realising the gravity of the task he had undertaken, and pitying from his heart the fair girl who stood white and scornful before him, her garden hat hanging from its ribbon, unconsciously held in her hand.

"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?" She said it defiantly, as if it were a gage of battle.

"I have come to apologise to you," he replied quietly.

"You tell me that he has sent you to me. Well, I know what that means. I knew why you came to the Hall, I would have stopped you if I could. You were my enemy, I felt it the moment I saw you. I knew you would have your way then. What chance had an unfortunate girl, whose only hope rested in the love of the man she loved, as against one who has made hundreds of matches, and broken hundreds of hearts? You owe me an apology you think – it is very good of you, I appreciate it deeply," and she made him an obeisance.

"I've not come to apologise to you for any point that I've gained, but for the means I must employ to gain it."

"Really," she said, her eyes blazing. "This is a condescension. Are not any means good enough to cope with an adventuress like myself – a young woman who is deterred by no conventions, and no maidenly reserve; whose every art and wile is strained to lure on to their fate weak and unsuspecting young men. Is it possible that such a person has any rights that need be respected?"

"Really, Miss Fitzgerald," said Kent-Lauriston, placidly, "you surprise me. In addition to the numerous virtues, which I'm confident you possess, I'd added in my own mind that paramount one, of cool clear-headedness. This lady, I had told myself, is at all events perfectly free from hysteria or nervous affections; she can discuss an unpleasant subject, if necessary, in its practical bearings, without flying into a fit of rage, and wandering hopelessly from the point. It appears that I was mistaken."

"No," she replied brusquely, "you are not; You've summed up my character very well, but you must remember that you've nothing to gain or lose in this matter. You're merely playing the game – directing the moves of the pawns. The problem is interesting, amusing, if you like, but whether you win or lose, you've nothing wagered on the result. But the pawn! Its very existence is at stake – a false move is made, and it disappears from the board."

"Quite true! But the pawn has a better chance of life, if the moves are considered calmly, than if played at random; it is then inevitably lost."

"You're right," she said, seating herself on a grassy bank near by: "perfectly right. Let us talk this matter over calmly. I shan't forget myself again."

He seated himself beside her.

"Now frankly," she continued, "before you saw me, or spoke to me, you'd made up your mind to save your friend from my clutches, had you not? I beg your pardon – doubtless, you'd disapprove of such an expression – we'll say, you had determined to prevent him from marrying me."

"Frankly speaking, yes, I had."

"But you knew nothing about me; you could know nothing about me, except on hearsay."

"Pardon me – I knew your late father, and I was at Colonel Belleston's, when you ran off with his heir-apparent, and were not found till half the country-side had been searched, and the dinner quite spoiled."

"But Georgie Belleston was only eight, and I scarcely twelve. We had determined, I remember, to join a circus – no, he wanted to fight Indians; but it was childish nonsense."

"The spirit was there, nevertheless. But in the present case I was considering Mr. Stanley, I must confess, rather than yourself. The world, my dear young lady, is an open market, a prosaic, mercantile world."

"Don't you suppose I know that?"

"I'm willing to believe it if you wish me to do so. It will help us to understand the commonsense proposition that marriageable young men, like cabbages, have a market value, and that a young man like our friend, who has a great deal to offer, should – shall I be perfectly plain, and say – should expect a pretty handsome return for himself."

"And you didn't think that I'd much to offer," she said, laughing. "In other words, that you'd be selling your cabbages very cheap. Eh?"

Kent-Lauriston said nothing, but she saw the impression she had produced, and bit her lips in mortified rage. She wished at least to win this man's respect, and she was showing herself to him in her very worst light.

"I had, as you say," she continued, "nothing to offer Mr. Stanley but my love; but I dare say you don't believe in love, Mr. Kent-Lauriston."

"Not believe in love? My dear young lady, it forms the basis of every possible marriage."

"Does it never form the whole of such a union?"

"Only too often, but these are the impossible marriages, and ninety-nine per cent. of them prove failures, or worse."

"I can't believe you – if one loves, nothing else counts."

"Quite true for the time being, but God help the man or woman who mistakes the passion aroused by a pretty face or form for the real lasting article, and wagers his life on it."

"You've never married; you can, therefore, talk as you please."

"My dear Miss Fitzgerald, if I'd ever married, I should probably not talk at all."

"You don't regard our affair as serious?"

"Not on Mr. Stanley's side?"

"And on mine?"

"That we shall see later on; but my young friend is in his salad days, and he's not responsible, but he is almost too honest."

"I suppose you'll say I tempted him."

"N-o – but you let him fall."

"However, you were at hand to rescue him. I wonder you should have wasted your valuable time in going through the formality of consulting me over so trivial an affair."

"But it's not trivial. I thought it was till this morning, now I've changed my mind. It's very serious. I've a right to save my friend from making a fool of himself, when he only is the real sufferer; but it's a very different question when the rights of another person are involved, especially when that person is a woman."

"So you've come to me?"

"To persuade you, if possible, to relinquish those rights."

"For his sake?"

"No, for your own."

"Really – that's a novel point of view to take of the matter."

"You think so. I only want you to see the affair in its true light, to realise that the game isn't worth the candle."

"I think you'll find it difficult to prove that."

"We shall see. Suppose I state the case. Here are you, a charming young lady of good family, but no means, thrown on your own resources; in a word, with the opportunity of marrying a – shall we say, pliable– young man, of good official standing, and an undoubtedly large income and principal; who is infatuated – thinks he's fallen in love with you, and whom you really love. There, have I stated the case fairly?"

"So fairly, that you'll find it difficult to prove your point."

"Let me continue. Suppose you're married; grand ceremonial, great éclat, delighted friends and relatives, handsome presents, diamonds and all – he'd do the thing well – honeymoon, say, the Riviera – limit, three months – what next? Where are you going to live? London? It won't do. Property – that property you're so interested in – can't take care of itself; the young heir of those broad plantations must go home and learn the business. Your practical mind shows you the necessity of that. Do you know the life of his native country? No? Your nearest neighbours thirty miles away, and deadly dull at that; your climate a damp, sultry fog; your amusements, sleeping in a hammock two-thirds of the day, when the mosquitoes will let you, and your husband's society, as sole company, the rest of the time. After two or three years, or perhaps four or five – long enough to ruin your matchless complexion, and cause you both to be forgotten by all your friends, except those who can't afford to do so – you come back to London for a nice long visit – say three months. How you will enjoy it! Let me see, what do you most like? Horses, riding, hunting? Ever heard the Secretary's ideas on hunting?"

She laughed nervously, and Kent-Lauriston pursued his subject.

"Then he's so indefatigable at balls and parties; I've known him to stay half an hour, when he's been feeling fit! His friends, too, such dear old fogies, like your esteemed aunt, not like your friends – you know how fond he is of them. The Kingslands and Darcys of your acquaintance would simply revel in the house of a man who never plays cards for money, and can't tell an eighty from a ninety-eight champagne – and he'd be master in his own house, too – you received an ultimatum yesterday. A man who will do that to a woman to whom he isn't even quite engaged will command his wife and see that she obeys him. You would have before you the choice of living in an atmosphere and associating with people entirely uncongenial to you, or living wholly apart from your husband; either would be intolerable. Have I proved my point?"

"You've forgotten to include in your charming sketch that I should still have the comforts of life, and, what is more important, a house to cover me, enough to eat and drink, and clothes to wear – things which I have sometimes in the past found it pretty difficult to obtain."

"True, but you'd be paying too high a price for them, much too high. Take my word for it, again and again you'd long to be back in your present state; yes, and in harder straits than you are now."

"What you say to me could be equally well applied to Mr. Stanley, in reverse."

"Quite so; it sums up in the mere fact, that you two have nothing in common except passion and sentimentality, very frail corner stones on which to build a life's happiness. You're not even companionable. What are you going to talk about for the rest of your lives? It's an appalling prospect. I want to save you both from making a very bad bargain."

"I don't agree with you," she cried vehemently, springing to her feet, "not at all; but what difference does it make? I know well enough I'm not really to be consulted as to the issue; you'd never have had the effrontery to speak to me as you have done, if you were not already sure of the game. To use a commercial phrase, you've cornered the market, and can make what terms you please. I must accede to them."

"You entirely mistake the situation, Miss Fitzgerald," he said, calmly rising, and facing her. "It is you who have cornered the market, and it is I who must buy at your price."

"Explain yourself! What do you mean?" she cried, a gleam of hope, almost of triumph, lighting up her face.

Kent-Lauriston was now playing a bold game.

"I mean," he replied, "that circumstances have rendered me powerless to prevent Mr. Stanley's marrying you, if you allow him to do so."

"Tell me! – " she exclaimed abruptly.

"It's for that purpose that I've sought you out."

She nodded. She was watching him guardedly.

"I've admitted that our young friend was in love with you. I don't say you encouraged him, but you certainly excited his pity, a very dangerous proceeding with a person of his nature."

"What's all this to do with my position?"

"A great deal," resumed Kent-Lauriston. "You see, I want you to understand your hold over Mr. Stanley – it's really because he pities you." The girl flushed painfully. "Excuse me if I speak things which are unpleasant, but you most understand your weakness, and your strength. You've nearly ruined yourself by being too clever, and now, by the wildest stroke of luck, you're in a very strong position."

"Would you mind speaking plainly?"

"Certainly. In a word, the situation is just this. Within the last few days, Mr. Stanley has made three discoveries about you, which have gone far to destroy his sympathy for you, and make him believe that his pity or his love, as he chooses to call it, has been misplaced. Two of these discoveries I believe to be true; one – the worst – I know to be false. If he discovers how shockingly you've been maligned, he'll probably forget the past, and, in a burst of contrition at having so misjudged you, will do what his common sense forbids – I mean, marry you."

"You're really becoming interesting. I had underrated your abilities. Pray be more explicit," she said, quite at her ease at these reassuring words, and putting Kent-Lauriston down, mentally, as a fool for giving the game away, when he need only have kept silent to have had it all in his own hands.

He read her thoughts and smiled quietly, for, by her expression, he could gauge the depth of her subtlety. She was no match for him, if she were innocent enough to believe him capable of such folly.

"You compliment me," he returned, "but to go on – in the first place, he learned of your connection with Lady Isabelle's marriage. It opened his eyes somewhat."

"She told him?"

"She did. You forced her to do so, by your threat against her husband."

Miss Fitzgerald bit her lip, and said nothing.

"Lady Isabelle," continued Kent-Lauriston, "in appealing to the Secretary to save her husband, gave him the clue he was searching for; which resulted in his discovery of the friendly turn you had done the Lieutenant, in making him unconsciously, shall we say, particeps criminis?"

"Ah!"

"Have you seen Colonel Darcy to-day?"

She paused for a moment, considering, and then decided it was better to be straightforward, and replied:

"Not since yesterday morning. I went to see him last evening, but found him out."

"I know you did."

Miss Fitzgerald breathed a sigh of relief. It was well she had decided not to lie to this man.

"You're probably not aware, then," continued Kent-Lauriston, "that Stanley succeeded in opening the secret door last night, and obtained possession of Darcy's letter of instructions."

The Irish girl turned very white, looking as if she were going to faint.

"Then he knows everything," she whispered.

"Everything," replied her tormentor. "The details of the plot he has known for some time, being stationed here by the Legation to watch the Colonel – but it was not till Darcy was brought to book this morning, and in order to save himself, signed a written confession, that he really knew the extent to which you were incriminated."

She burst into tears. Kent-Lauriston proceeded unconcernedly with his story.

"The Colonel's chivalry is not of such a nature as would cause him to hesitate in shifting all the responsibility he could, on the shoulders of a woman."

She dried her tears at that, and her eyes fairly snapped.

"The fact," resumed Kent-Lauriston, "that Stanley had on several occasions tried to help you to clear yourself, and the fact that you'd persistently – well – not done so – made matters all the worse. In short, on these two counts alone, you had given evidence of an amount of deceit and cold-blooded calculation that completely upset even such an optimist as he. Still, I think he would have overlooked it, if properly managed – if that had been the worst."

"Can anything be worse?"

"Yes, for this last charge against you is not true."

"Go on."

"You placed yourself in Darcy's power. A clever woman, a really clever woman, my dear Miss Fitzgerald, would not have done that. It would be easy for him to manufacture circumstantial evidence, to back any lie he might choose to exploit, to your discredit. Say, for instance, that you were the prime mover in this plot, and that you went into it for a financial consideration, for three thousand pounds."

"But Bob never would – "

"Wouldn't he, when he was thirsting for revenge, believing that your careless threat against Lieutenant Kingsland had ruined his hopes."

"Did he do this?"

"He did, and that is why I'm here this morning in Mr. Stanley's place – commissioned to return to you your letters," and he handed her the packet.

"It's not true!" she cried. "Before Heaven, Mr. Kent-Lauriston, it is not true!"

"I know it's not true, for Darcy's confessed to me."

"But Mr. Stanley does not know."

"No."

"Then he must be told."

"If you tell him he'll fling prudence to the winds in an agony of remorse, and you'll have won the game."

"You mean he'll keep to his engagement?"

"I mean he'll marry you."

"And you dare to ask any woman to allow such a slander to live when she can deny it?"

"I ask you, for your own sake, for the reasons I've stated, for your future happiness, and as an escape from certain misery – to let him go."

"I tell you I love him."

"Then I ask you for his sake. A brilliant diplomatic career is just opening before him, as the result of the discovery of this plot. Is his government likely to repose confidence in him in the future, with you as his wife – a woman who has practised treason? His father would never receive you, and might disinherit him. Do you love this man so little that you wish to ruin him?"

"I tell you I love him – you do not understand."

"I understand that you love him in one of two ways. If it's a great love it's capable of sacrifice to prove its greatness. Show that it is so by giving him up. If it's any other sort of love it will not stand the strain to which you propose to subject it, and within six months after your marriage you'll realise that you've ruined two lives, and are yourself the chief sufferer. Come, prove that what you say is true, and save him from himself."

"But if I do, I do it at a fearful price. It means social ostracism."

"Not at all. Who will know of this charge against you? Four people at the most, and not one of them will ever speak of it. Darcy, who originated the lie, will, for obvious reasons, keep silent. Stanley's the soul of honour; he'd rather tear his tongue out than speak a word of it. I've proved my discretion through several generations, and Kingsland must be held in check by you."

"Why do you include Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"Because, I believe, he holds the only piece of evidence which could appear to substantiate Darcy's trumped-up lie."

"And that is?"

"The receipt for the forty thousand pounds in your name."

"And you wish me to ask Kingsland to proclaim my own shame!"

"I wish you to ask him to give that receipt to the Secretary."

"Now I see why you come to me, why you did not ruthlessly throw me over; your little plot had a weak point, and you needed my co-operation to complete my own degradation!"

"Miss Fitzgerald is fast becoming a diplomatist!"

"I'm a fool!"

"Pardon me, you are nearer wisdom than you've ever been in your life."

"If – I – do – this," she said very slowly, "you must help me to reinstate myself in the eyes of the world."

"I've told you it'll not be necessary."

"Bah! I know the world better than you do, with all your cleverness. Mine is a practical, not a theoretical, knowledge."

Kent-Lauriston bowed.

"They'll talk, no matter if it be truth or not. It will be believed. I must have a few questions answered in any event."

"Ask them."

"Who is Mr. Stanley to marry?"

"Madame Darcy."

"But – "

"Her husband has consented to the divorce."

"On what grounds?"

"Incompatibility of temper, I believe."

"So you think the Secretary will marry her?"

"I'll take charge of that matter."

"I know they love each other!" she exclaimed, passionately. "It was love at first sight. Then there was a misunderstanding. Now, one more question. This sum of forty thousand pounds?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"Who's to have it?"

"Darcy."

"What!"

"The Secretary told him he might draw it from the bank to-morrow, as, well – as compensation for turning State's evidence."

She laughed a harsh, unmusical laugh.

"You've won," she said. "I will do what you wish – for his sake."

"I believed that you would," he replied gravely, but one eyelid raised just a trifle. She saw it, and turned on him like a flash.

"No!" she cried, "it isn't for that reason! I've some good in me yet, some pride! I tell you, it's not your cleverness that has done this! I wouldn't surrender my good name for the sake of any man in the world! I wouldn't allow the breath of suspicion to linger in the minds of my friends, for the love of your friend, or any other weak fool, whom I can turn round my fingers! No! the reason I surrender is because your last words have told me how I can right myself before all the world, save one man; and I'll consent to sacrifice my reputation in his eyes, because I love him. But for all that, Robert Darcy cannot divorce the woman who bears his name."

"Why not?"

"Because she's not his wife."

"Not his wife! Who is his wife, then?"

"I am."