"By 'the hand that paid her,' you mean?" he asked--and now, his eyes
were fairly drilling into mine.
I took on a look of surprise.
"What does it usually mean?" I answered, with a bit of a shrug.
He either had to appear to accept the inference in this answer or else
ask me blankly if I meant that Mrs. Spencer was in his employ. He
chose the former.
"It is very difficult to associate such a beautiful woman with the
_demi-monde_," he said.
"Yet, Saint Anthony would stand no chance with her."
He looked at me with an amused smile.
"I assume you lay no claims to even ordinary saintship?"
"None, whatever, my dear Duke."
"Possibly, you avoided situations which might put you to the test?"
"Possibly," I laughed.
"You are more of a Saint than you imagine," he answered.
I shook my head.
"Colonel Spencer was my friend," I said.
"And his wife--and widow would have been--yours--and you would not;
_n'est ce pas_?"
I smiled.
"So, that's the motive for it, is it. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned,'" he quoted. It was meant as a question, however.
I appeared to hesitate.
"Revenge, sometimes, does take queer forms," I said tentatively.
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