“‘Your name is Bosk,’ she said, with a quick start, ‘and you an American?’

“‘Yes; why not?’

“‘My maiden name is Boski,’ she replied, looking at me in astonishment, ‘and I am a Pole.’

“Here were two mysteries solved.  She was married, and neither Italian nor Slav.

“‘And your ancestry?’ she continued with increased animation.  ’Are you of Polish blood?  You know our name is a great name in Poland.  Your grandfather, of course, was a Pole.’  Then, with deep interest, ’What are your armorial bearings?’

“I answered that I had never heard that my grandfather was a Pole.  It was quite possible, though, that we might be of Polish descent, for my father had once told me of an ancestor, an old colonel, who fell at Austerlitz.  As to the armorial bearings, we Americans never cared for such things.  The only thing I could remember was a certain seal which my father used to wear, and with which he sealed his letters.  The tradition in the family was that it belonged to this old colonel.  My sister used it sometimes.  I had a letter from her in my pocket.

“She examined the indented wax on the envelope, opened her cloak quickly, and took from the bag at her side a seal mounted in jewels, bearing a crest and coat of arms.

“’See how slight the difference.  The quarterings are almost the same, and the crest and motto identical.  This side is mine, the other is my husband’s.  How very, very strange!  And yet you are an American?’

“‘And your husband’s crest?’ I asked.  ‘Is he also a Pole?’

“‘Yes; I married a Pole,’ with a slight trace of haughtiness, even resentment, at the inquiry.

“’And his name, madame?  Chance has given you mine—­a fair exchange is never a robbery.’

“She drew herself up, and said quickly, and with a certain bearing I had not noticed before:—­

“‘Not now; it makes no difference.’

“Then, as if uncertain of the effect of her refusal, and with a willingness to be gracious, she added:—­

“In a few minutes—­at ten o’clock—­we reach Trieste.  The train stops twenty minutes.  You were so kind about my luncheon; I am stronger now.  Will you dine with me?’

“I thanked her, and on arriving at Trieste followed her to the door.  As we alighted from the carriage I noticed the same dark man standing by the steps, his fingers on his hat.  During the meal my companion seemed brighter and less weary, more gracious and friendly, until I called the waiter and counted out the florins on his tray.  Then she laid her hand quietly but firmly upon my arm.

“’Please do not—­you distress me; my servant Polaff has paid for everything.’

“I looked up.  The dark man was standing behind her chair, his hat in his hand.