“In hospital?” repeated Helen dazedly.

“Yes,” said Sir James.  “The fact is it was the ending of the usual Bohemian artist’s life.  Though in this case the man was a real artist,—­and I believe, by the way, was a countryman of yours.”

“In hospital?” again repeated Helen.  “Then he was poor?”

“Reckless, I should rather say; he threw himself into the fighting before Paris and was badly wounded.  But it was all the result of the usual love affair—­the girl, they say, ran off with the usual richer man.  At all events, it ruined him for painting; he never did anything worth having afterwards.”

“And now?” said Helen in the same unmoved voice.

Sir James shrugged his shoulders.  “He disappeared.  Probably he’ll turn up some day on the London pavement—­with chalks.  That sketch, by the way, was one that had always attracted me to his studio—­though he never would part with it.  I rather fancy, don’t you know, that the girl had something to do with it.  It’s a wonderfully realistic sketch, don’t you see; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was the girl herself who lived behind one of those queer little windows in the roof there.”

“She did live there,” said Helen in a low voice.

Sir James uttered a vague laugh.  Helen looked around her.  The duchess had quietly and unostentatiously passed into the library, and in full view, though out of hearing, was examining, with her glass to her eye, some books upon the shelves.

“I mean,” said Helen, in a perfectly clear voice, “that the young girl did not run away from the painter, and that he had neither the right nor the cause to believe her faithless or attribute his misfortunes to her.”  She hesitated, not from any sense of her indiscretion, but to recover from a momentary doubt if the girl were really her own self—­but only for a moment.

“Then you knew the painter, as I did?” he said in astonishment.

“Not as you did,” responded Helen.  She drew nearer the picture, and, pointing a slim finger to the canvas, said:—­

“Do you see that small window with the mignonette?”

“Perfectly.”

“That was my room.  His was opposite.  He told me so when I first saw the sketch.  I am the girl you speak of, for he knew no other, and I believe him to have been a truthful, honorable man.”

“But what were you doing there?  Surely you are joking?” said Sir James, with a forced smile.

“I was a poor pupil at the Conservatoire, and lived where I could afford to live.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“And the man was”—­

“Major Ostrander was my friend.  I even think I have a better right to call him that than you had.”

Sir James coughed slightly and grasped the lapel of his coat.  “Of course; I dare say; I had no idea of this, don’t you know, when I spoke.”  He looked around him as if to evade a scene.  “Ah! suppose we ask the duchess to look at the sketch; I don’t think she’s seen it.”  He began to move in the direction of the library.