"It is not mine," she replied. "Probably it's the other woman's." She
held out her hand, the most symmetrical hand Harleston had ever seen.
"My letter, please, Mr. Harleston."

"I no longer have the letter," said Harleston.

"Then why did you--" she exclaimed; "but you can lay your hand on it?"

"I can lay my hand on it," he smiled--"whenever you convince me, or I
ascertain, that the letter does not concern directly or indirectly the
diplomatic affairs of the United States. You forget that was the
concluding stipulation, Mrs. Clephane. Meanwhile the letter will not,
you may feel assured, fall into the possession of the party who
attempted to steal it from you."

"What does it all mean?" she asked, leaning forward. "Who beside France
are the parties concerned?"

"It means that some nation is ready to take desperate chances to prevent
your letter from reaching the French Ambassador. What actuates it,
whether to learn its contents or to prevent its present delivery, I
naturally do not know." Then he laughed. "Would it interest you very
much to learn, Mrs. Clephane, that I was visited last night by three
men, who tried, at the point of the revolver, to force the letter from
me?"

"You surely don't mean it!" she exclaimed.

And with this exclamation the last doubt in Harleston's mind of Mrs.