"Good Lord all you want, you're on the verge and preparing to leap
in--and you know it. Let some other man be the life-saver, Harleston.
You're much too fine a chap to waste yourself in foolishness."

"And all this," Harleston expostulated with mock solemnity, "because I
neglected to include a description of Mrs. Clephane."

"Neglected with deliberation. And with you that is more significant than
if you had detailed most minutely her manifold attractions. Look here,
Harleston, do you want this translation for yourself or for Mrs.
Clephane?"

"I want the translation because the Secretary of State wants it,"
Harleston replied quietly.

"Oh, don't become chilly," Carpenter returned good-naturedly. "If you
permit, I'll tell you something about a Mrs. Clephane--queer name
Clephane, and rather unusual--whom I used to see in Paris," glancing
languidly at Harleston, "several years ago. Want to hear it?"

"Sure!" said Harleston. "Drive on and keep driving. You won't drive over
me."

"It isn't a great deal," Carpenter went on, slowly tearing the consonant
collection into bits, "and perchance it wasn't your Mrs. Clephane; but
her name, and her beauty and charm, and Paris, and some other inferences
I drew, led me to suspect that--" He completed the sentence by a wave of
his hand. "She was Robert Clephane's wife--yes, I see in your face that
she is your Mrs. Clephane--and he led her a merry life, though if rumour