In the doorway just behind him stood His Royal Highness the Prince of
Wales chatting with apparent carelessness to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and
Lord Anthony Dewhurst. A curtain beyond the open door was partially
drawn aside, disclosing one or two brilliantly dressed groups, strolling
desultorily through the further rooms.

The four persons assembled in the little boudoir had been so absorbed by
their own passionate emotions and the violence of their quarrel that they
had not noticed the approach of Sir Percy Blakeney and of his friends.
Juliette and Marguerite certainly were startled and Candeille was
evidently taken unawares. Chauvelin alone seemed quite indifferent and
stood back a little when Sir Percy advanced, in order to allow him to
pass.

But Candeille recovered quickly enough from her surprise: without
heeding Blakeney's proffered arm, she turned with all the airs of an
insulted tragedy queen towards Marguerite.

"So 'tis I," she said with affected calm, "who am to bear every insult in a
house in which I was bidden as a guest. I am turned out like some
intrusive and importunate beggar, and I, the stranger in this land, am
destined to find that amidst all these brilliant English gentlemen there is
not one man of honour.

"M. Chauvelin," she added loudly, "our beautiful country has, meseems,
deputed you to guard the honour as well as the worldly goods of your
unprotected compatriots. I call upon you, in the name of France, to
avenge the insults offered to me to-night."

She looked round defiantly from one to the other of the several faces