"Who has offended the Countess?" demanded Lapas hotly.
"Offended, my young friend! This is not an offense. It is the gravest indignity that can be shown a woman. It is an insult to which a man must either blind himself--or punish with such means as can ignore personal peril."
"For God's sake," insisted the other, "explain yourself."
"Louis Delgado," began Jusseret quietly, "accepted this woman's love: enjoyed it to the full. He sat and dreamed over his absinthe futile dreams of power. He was too weak to strike a blow--too weak to raise a hand. Then she took up his cause; intrigued, enlisted our interests, raised his supine and powerless ambitions to a throne. There he abandons her at the foot of the stairs by which he mounted; and refuses her his Crown. He talks now of a more Royal alliance." Jusseret spread his hands in a gesture of disgust.
Lapas rose tensely from his chair. The veins on his temples stood out corded and deep-lined.
"This cannot be true, sir," he argued. "There must be some error. You wrong the King."
"Am I the man to wrong Louis?" questioned the Frenchman. "You have only to wait and see for yourself. The matter rests with you. She and I have put Louis on the throne. So much I did as the servant of my government. What I say to you I say as a man, and I had rather behold all my work undone than to stand by and see it bear such fruit. Adieu."
He rose slowly and took his departure. Outside, he smiled.
"I fancy," he told himself, "he will go to the Countess. I fancy she will corroborate me--and then--!" He dismissed the matter with his habitual shrug.
Two weeks had passed since the tragedy in Stamboul, and the _Isis_ cruised aimlessly westward. The Mediterranean stretched to the horizon, so placid that the froth from the wake washed languidly, almost lifelessly, on the surface, and a single cloud hung stationary in the softer blue of the sky. Wrapped in a steamer rug, her figure, more slender in the simple lines of her black gown, Cara sat gazing toward the receding coast-line of Malta. So she had spent most of the hours since they had weighed anchor at Constantinople. On the deck at her feet sat Benton.
At Piræus Von Ritz had secured a copy of the _Figaro_ several days old, and the men had read its report of the Regency of Louis in Puntal. Then the yacht had called at Malta where the gray fortresses of Valetta frown out to sea, and Von Ritz had once more gone in quest of news.