“But then, madame, why—­”

“Ah, yes,” interrupted Nina, “why? you will be very wise if you can answer me.  For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question, so sad to me.  I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so.  You cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself that never is a single thought passing in his mind to be detected upon his countenance.  I have watched him as only a woman can watch the man upon whom her fate depends, but it has always been in vain.  He is kind and indulgent; but he does not betray himself, never will he commit himself.  Ignorant people call him weak, yielding:  I tell you that fair-haired man is a rod of iron painted like a reed!”

Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Mme. Nina betrayed her inmost thoughts.  She was without distrust, never suspecting that the stranger listening to her was other than a friend of Prosper.

As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself upon his success.  No one but a woman could have drawn him so excellent a portrait; in a moment of excitement she had given him the most valuable information; he now knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which in an investigation like that he was pursuing is the principal point.

“You know that M. Bertomy gambles,” he ventured to say, “and gambling is apt to lead a man—­”

Mme. Gypsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him: 

“Yes, he plays,” she said, “but he is not a gambler.  I have seen him lose and gain large sums without betraying the slightest agitation.  He plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he falls in love—­without passion, without enthusiasm, without pleasure.  Sometimes he frightens me; he seems to drag about a body without a soul.  Ah, I am not happy!  Never have I been able to overcome his indifference, and indifference so great, so reckless, that I often think it must be despair; nothing will convince me that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden.”

“Then he has never spoken to you of his past?”

“Why should he tell me?  Did you not hear me?  I tell you he does not love me!”

Mme. Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and tears silently coursed down her cheeks.

But her despair was only momentary.  She started up, and, her eyes sparkling with generous resolution, she cried out: 

“But I love him, and I will save him!  I will see his chief, the miserable wretch who dares to accuse him.  I will haunt the judges, and I will prove that he is innocent.  Come, monsieur, let us start, and I promise you that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison with him.”

Mme. Gypsy’s project was certainly laudable, and prompted by the noblest sentiments; but unfortunately it was impracticable.

Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of the detective.