hideousness--the past which she had put behind her for
ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.

And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!

Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!

She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.

"Well--speak! Tell me who and what you are."

The word "what" cut deeply into her.

He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard,
remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.

"It seems long ago since we last met, doesn't it?" he remarked, in a
hard voice. "You left me because I was poor."

"Not because you were poor, Ralph," she managed to reply; "but because
you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back."

"Adolphe!" he cried in disgust. "The swine is still in prison, I
suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river--the
safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned,
but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I've had a most
pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself
into the Seine."

She looked at him with a strange expression.

"True; but his deeds still remain."

"Deeds--what do you mean?"

"I mean this!" she cried, starting to her feet and facing him
determinedly. "I mean that you--Ralph Ansell, my husband--killed Richard
Harborne!"

His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.

He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:

"Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing?
Harborne--oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in
England."

"Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the
authorities know that he died by your hand," was her slow reply. "It is
known that you acted as the cats'-paw--that it was you who tampered
with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before
our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time--at the time when I,
in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!"

"Then you love me no longer--eh, Jean?" he asked, facing her, his brows
knit.

"How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?"

"Murderer!" he cried, in anger. "You must prove it! I'll compel you to
prove it, or by gad! I'll--I'll strangle you!"

"The facts are already proved."

"How do you know?"

"From an official report which I have seen. It is now in m