Alma bent her head.
She toyed uneasily with the long fringe as she went on, never relaxing her gaze at Alma:
'May I inquire, too, whether you are acquainted with Major De Vigne?'
At the abrupt mention of his name, a hot blush came in Alma's face; again she bowed in silence.
'You are very intimate with him—much interested in him, are you not?'
Alma rose, her slight figure haughtily erect, her eyes sufficiently indicative of resentment at her visitor's unceremonious intrusion:
'Pardon me, madam, if I inquire by what title you venture to intrude such questions upon me?'
'My title is clear enough,' answered her guest, with a certain sardonic smile, which did not escape Alma's quick perception, and increased her distrust of her interrogator. 'Perhaps you may guess it when I ask you but one more question: Are you aware that Major de Vigne is a married man?'
For a moment the cruel abruptness of the question sent back the blood to the girl's heart, and her companion's bold, harsh eyes watched with infinite amusement the quiver that passed over her bright young face. But it was only for a moment: the next, Alma smiled at the idea, as if Sir Folko would conceal anything from her—above all, con-
