She is much too beautiful to be forgotten easily."
"The beauty is only external. She is ugly in heart," I said. "I
wonder what brings her to Dornlitz?"
"The man beside her, doubtless," said Dehra.
"Then he's spending money on her like water--or she has some game
afoot," I exclaimed.
"You paint her very dark, dear."
"Listen," I said. "She was the wife of Colonel Spencer of the American
Army. He married her, one summer, in Paris, where he had gone to meet
her upon her graduation from a convent school. She was his ward--the
child of the officer who had been his room-mate at the Point. Within
two years Colonel Spencer was dead--broken-hearted; a wealthy
Lieutenant of his regiment had been cashiered and had shot himself
after she had plucked him clean. Since then, she has lived in the odor
of eminent respectability; yet, as I know, always waiting for a
victim--and always having one. Money is her God."
"And, yet, there seems to be nothing in her appearance to suggest such
viciousness," said Dehra.
"Nothing," I said; "and, hence, her danger and her power."
"You knew her when she was Colonel Spencer's wife?"
"I met her at the Post where he commanded--and, later, I saw her in
Washington and New York.
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