nightmare--horrible and at the same time absurd. But she made a great
effort to remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman. So she added
quietly: "I can't tell--I can't in the least guess--why this woman is
telling such a strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth of
what I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name is John Dampier. He is an artist,
and has a studio here in Paris."

"Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"

"Of course I do." The question stung her, this time past endurance. "I
think I had better have a cab and drive there straight," she said stiffly.
"Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage all
right by myself now."

Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened,
hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of
concern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl--she
looked even younger than his daughter--pretend that she had come here
accompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?

Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no very
pleasant expression on her face.

"Well," she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieur
le Senateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse
us of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrived
with a man--as to that I say nothing--but I assert most positively that in
that case he left her before she actually came into the Hotel Saint Ange."

"Will you please ask her to call me a cab?" said Nancy trembling.