“You have baffled me, my lady,” he said.

“Yes,” was the calm reply, “I have checkmated you, count.  You will extort no more money from me, nor will you threaten me again.”

“Well,” said the count, “I confess myself beaten, and I am not a good man, either, my Lady Amelie, but sooner than have blighted that young man’s life, as you have done, I would have suffered anything.”

“My dear count,” said Lady Amelie, philosophically, “some men seem, by fate and by nature, destined to be used as a cat’s-paw.”

Count Jules was baffled; his only hold upon the rich and beautiful Lady Amelie was broken.  What those letters contained was known only to the lady and himself.  If simply the written expressions of her own unhappiness, he placed more value on them than they were worth.  The chances are that they held more than that.

He was entirely defeated—­they had been his last resources for long.  He had never failed, by means of them, to extort money from Lady Lisle at pleasure.  It was useless to threaten any more.  She had but to dare him to bring forth his proofs, and he had not one word to say.

His only consolation was, that in revenge, he had completely blighted the young hero’s life, for hero he was, although his heroism was of a mistaken kind.

And Lady Amelie—­did she feel any regret for the young life tarnished?  She missed a very pleasant companion, an enthusiastic adorer, but as fortune would have it, there came to England a young Roman prince, who was both artist and poet, handsome as a Greek god, and wealthy beyond compare.  His appearance created a perfect furore in fashionable society, and he, as a matter of course, fell in love with Lady Amelie, so that she soon forgot the young knight who languished in prison.  When the season was over, she persuaded her husband to go to Rome, and never left even a line or a message for the mistaken young man who had done so much for her.

She only did what suited her; she was the queen of coquettes, and she made him useful to her; nothing else mattered.

The lonely months wore on very slowly for Basil.  At first the notion of heroism and the conviction that he was performing a most noble and chivalrous deed sustained him; but there was a fund of common sense in his character, and this common sense suggested to him that instead of being a hero, he had been the dupe of a wily coquette.  Not at first did this idea strike him; not until long, dreary weeks had passed, and she had never sent him even one message of thanks or sympathy.  He was very angry with the idea at first, thinking it quite a false one, but gradually he awakened to the conviction that it was true.

Then his fortitude forsook him, and it was some consolation to hear from Mr. Forster that what the kind-hearted lawyer called his misrepresentations had been effectual.  People had almost forgotten that little paragraph that had one morning taken London by storm.