“I have denied it so constantly and emphatically,” he said, “that my words have been believed.  As soon as you get out of here, make haste abroad, then all may be well.”

Even he could not help seeing how entirely the light and brightness had faded from the young face.

“I have never said anything to you,” said Mr. Forster, one morning, “but I have a certain conviction, Mr, Carruthers, that there is some woman in this; you are here for a woman’s sake and to screen her from blame; if so, it is useless asking you to tell the truth, I know, but make the best of it; get out of this as soon as you can.”

He did so.  When the six months were over, “John Smith” was discharged and did not linger many hours in London; he went at once to Paris, and there made out where Lady Amelie was.

“In Rome,” replied the gentleman of whom he asked the question.  “Her last caprice was a young Roman prince, and they are settled there for the winter.”  To Rome he resolved to go.  He would see for himself whether she was all that his dreaming fancy had painted her, or whether she was what men said—­a heartless coquette.

He went to Rome, and found her, as usual, queen of all that was most brilliant and gay.

It was at a soiree given by the Duchessa Sforza.  He saw her again, beautiful, radiant and magnificent.  By her side stood a young man, who was handsome as one of the grand old statutes that ornamented the galleries of Rome.  He watched her, thinking bitterly of the time that had passed since be looked his last on that radiant face, and all the bitter shame that had been his portion since then.

He crossed the room and went over to her.  Whatever dismay she may have felt, she showed none.  She looked up with a bright, cold smile, as though they had parted but yesterday.

“Mr. Carruthers!” she said.  “I hope you are well.  I really believe that half of England is coming to Rome.”

“Can you wonder,” said the prince, “when England’s fairest queen is here?”

Lady Amelie introduced the two gentlemen, and after a time the prince went away.  Then she turned her lovely face to the young man she had duped so cleverly.

“How do you like Rome?” she asked,

“I cannot talk commonplace to you, Lady Lisle,” he said; “I have come from England purposely to see you,”

She looked slightly impatient.

“Ah,” she replied.  “Of course I am very much obliged to you; but you must have been terribly imprudent.  Could you not have managed without being discovered in that suspicious attitude?  I was so grievously distressed.  You are too quixotic—­you seek needless dangers.”

That was the extent of her gratitude to the man who had saved her reputation, character, and fair fame.

“I did not compromise you,” he said.  “I preferred imprisonment to that.”

“Yes; but it was quixotic; there was no need for anything of the kind.”