right again, her face ghastly. "I will
tell. I will tell all. Give me but a moment!"

She sat there, struggling for self-control, her streaked and
grotesque countenance contorted with emotion. Then I saw her eyes
widen, and, glancing around, I saw that Rogers had dragged himself to
a sitting posture, and was staring at her, his face livid.

The sight of him seemed to madden her.

"It was you!" she shrieked, and shook her clenched fist at him. "It
was you who told! Coward! Coward!"

But Godfrey, his face very grim, laid a heavy hand upon her arm.

"Be still!" he cried. "He told us nothing! He tried to shield you
--though why he should wish to do so...."

Rogers broke in with a hollow and ghastly laugh.

"It was natural enough, sir," he said hoarsely. "She's my wife!"

CHAPTER XVI

PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER

It was a sordid story that Rogers gasped out to us; and, as it
concerns this tale only incidentally, I shall pass over it as briefly
as may be.

Eight or ten years before, the fair Julie--at least, she was fairer
then than now!--had come to New York to enter the employ of a family
whose mistress had decided that life without a French maid was
unendurable. Rogers had met her, had been fascinated by her black
eyes and red lips, had, in the end, proposed honourable marriage
--quite unnecessarily, no doubt!--had been accepted, and for some
months had led an eventful existence as the husband of the siren.
Then, one morning, he awakened to find her gone.

He had, of course, entrusted his savings to her--that had been one
condition of the marriage!--and the savings were gone, also. Julie,
it seems, had been overcome with longing for the Paris asphalt; no
doubt, too, she had found herself ennuied by the lack of romance in
married life with Rogers; and she had flown back to France. Rogers
had thought of following; but, appalled at the difficulty of finding
her in Paris, not knowing what he should do if he did find her, he
had finally given it up, and had settled gloomily down to live upon
his memories. Some sort of affection for her had kept alive within
him, and when he opened the door of Vantine's house and found her
standing on the steps, he was as wax in her hands.

Julie had listened to all this indifferently, even disdainfully,
without denying anything, nor seeking to excuse herself. Perhaps the
idea that she needed excuse did not occur to her. And when the story
was finished, she was quite herself