He looked at her piercingly, as though seeking to read her mind.
"I will tell you," said Mirelle. "I am ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day, you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite mad—" she made an eloquent gesture. "My temperament, it is not a patient one. I want to be revenged on you, and so I go to the Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to the police and say so and so, and so and so. But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely did I lose my head; the proofs rests with me alone. The police can do nothing without my word, you understand.? And now—now?"
She nestled up close to him, looking up at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing to a cat-like slit.
"Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You have come back to me, have you not?"
"I shall never come back to you," said Derek steadily.
"Ah!"
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
"So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?"
"I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know."
"That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no." Her beautiful lithe body quivered. "Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only
