“I asked you to come,” said Beatrice at last, “because I wanted your help in a matter of importance to myself.  I understand that you know a person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here.”

Keyork’s bright blue eyes scrutinized her face.  He wondered how much she knew.

“Very well indeed,” he answered, as though not at all surprised.

“You know something of her life, then.  I suppose you see her very often, do you not?”

“Daily, I can almost say.”

“Have you any objection to answering one question about her?”

“Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers,” said Keyork, wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a surprise with indifference.

“But will you answer me truly?”

“My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour,” Keyork answered with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his heart.

“Does she love that man—­or not?” Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its case and had hitherto concealed in her hand.

She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he did himself, which was not saying much.  But she had counted upon surprising him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent.  His answer did not come as glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed.

“Who is it!  Ah, dear me!  My old friend.  We call him the Wanderer.  Well, Unorna certainly knew him when he was here.”

“Then he is gone?”

“Indeed, I am not quite sure,” said Keyork, regaining all his self-possession.  “Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know.  But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing.  They were a good deal together at one time.  I fancy he was consulting her.  You have heard that she is a clairvoyant, I daresay.”

He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no importance to the fact.

“Then you do not know whether she loves him?”

Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and musical.

“Love is a very vague word,” he said presently.

“Is it?” Beatrice asked, with some coldness.

“To me, at least,” Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused.  “But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothing about it in others.”

Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatrice with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it.

“You know him yourself, of course,” Beatrice suggested.

“I have known him for years—­oh, yes, for him, I can answer.  He was not in the least in love.”

“I did not ask that question,” said Beatrice rather haughtily.  “I knew he was not.”

“Of course, of course.  I beg your pardon!”