Whereat Mrs. Clephane sighed with amused complacency, and waited.

Presently the door opened and the secretary appeared. "His Excellency
will receive you, Madame Clephane," he said.

"I thank you--oh, so much!" she whispered as she passed him--and the
look that went with the words cleared all her scores--and almost
finished him.

So much for a smile--when a beautiful woman smiles, and smiles in just
the right way, and especially when the man smiled on is a Frenchman.

The Ambassador was standing by a large, flat-topped desk in the centre
of the room, his back was to the light, which was generously given in
all its effulgence to his visitors. He was a small man and slight of
build, intensely nervous, with well-cut features, gray hair--what there
was of it--and a tiny black moustache curled up at the ends but not
waxed.

He came briskly forward and extended his hand.

"My dear Madame Clephane," he said in French, leading her to a chair,
"how can I serve you?"

"By listening to my story, your Excellency, and believing it," Mrs.
Clephane answered,--"and at the end not being too severe on me for my
misfortune and ignorance."

"That will not be difficult," he bowed, with a frank look of admiration.
"You come from Madame Durrand, I believe?"