ce."

"I shall not do that."

"I will not return with you," she said in a furious tone.

"That is natural," Alan agreed politely. "What then?"

"I told you I knew this place," she answered. "I am to meet a friend
upon the road, half a mile further on. I am going there now. He will
take me to the next station on the line."

"Admirably planned!" said Alan. "Every detail fits in to perfection."

"And I shall never come back," she said, looking at him spitefully.

For answer, he raised his hat. She turned on her heel, went down the
slope towards the road, and disappeared. It was a strange parting
between husband and wife. Not a single feeling of reluctance existed in
the mind of either; only a fixed resolve to have done with each other
henceforth and for ever.

Alan bound up his wounds as well as he could, and retraced his steps to
Culoz. He would have done better, possibly, to avoid the place. People
stared at him curiously as he passed them by. Why had he come back
alone? What had he done with the beautiful lady who had accompanied him
when he set forth?

"He, monsieur," tried the black-eyed dame of the auberge, leaning over
the rail of the verandah, as he passed: "ou donc est madame? Est-ce
qu'elle ne revient pas?"

"Madame est partie," said Alan continuing his walk without turning
round. The aubergiste looked after him in amaze. Where could madame have
gone? There was no other road to the station, and she had been watching
for the English milord and his lady for the last hour and a half! What
had he done with madame?

It was a matter of speculation which lasted her for many a day, and was
often recounted to new comers. It became the general opinion at Culoz
that the Englishman had in some unaccountable manner killed his wife and
disposed mysteriously of her body. But although search was made for it
high and low, the murdered body was never found. Nevertheless, the
stranger's guilt remained a tradition of the neighborhood, and the story
of that marvelous disappearance is related by the villagers unto this
day.

Alan went on his way rejoicing, although in somewhat grim and
shame-faced wise. For three years he had been a miserable slave. Now he
was free! And he determined that he would never submit to bonds again.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE RECTORY.

About the very time when Alan Walcott, at the age of three-and-twenty,
was making a hasty match with the daughter of a French refugee--a match
bitterly d