"Raoul du Laurier!" exclaimed Ivor. "So she's engaged to marry him!"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I have friends who do. He's in the French Foreign Office, though they
say he's more at home in the hunting field, or writing plays--"

"Which don't get produced. Quite so. But they will get produced some
day, for I believe he's an extremely clever fellow in his way--in
everything except the diplomatic 'trade' which his father would have him
take up, and got him into, through Heaven knows what influence. No; Du
Laurier's no fool, and is said to be a fine sportsman, as well as almost
absurdly good-looking. Mademoiselle Maxine has plenty of excuse for her
infatuation--for I assure you it's nothing less. She'd jump into the
fire for this young man, and grill with a Joan of Arc smile on her
face."

This would have been pleasant hearing for Ivor, if he'd ever been really
in love with Maxine; but I was obliged to admit to myself that he
hadn't, for he didn't seem to care in the least. On the contrary, he
grew a little more cheerful.

"I can see that du Laurier's being in the French Foreign Office might
make it rather awkward for Miss de Renzie if she--if she's been rather
too helpful to us," he said.

"Exactly. And thereby hangs a tale--a sensational and even romantic tale
almost complicated enough for the plot of a novel. When you meet
Mademoiselle to-morrow afternoon or evening, if she cares to take you