w ended. There was no further reference made to the
unpleasant facts now brought to light by the letter and documents sent
over by Hyde. Mrs. Wilders, as we shall still call her, knew that she
could not dispute them; that any protest in the shape of law
proceedings would only make more public her own shame and
discomfiture. But if she was beaten she would not confess it yet; and
at least she was resolved that the enemy who had so ruthlessly
betrayed her should not enjoy his triumph.

CHAPTER XIII.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Mrs. Wilders's first and only idea after she left Lincoln's Inn was to
get to Paris as soon as she could. She no longer counted on much
assistance from Ledantec, nor, indeed, had she much belief in him now;
but she yet hoped he might help her to obtain revenge. Whatever it
cost her, Rupert Gascoigne must pay the penalty of thwarting her when
she seemed on the very threshold of success.

Having desired her maid to pack a few things, she hastily realised all
the money she had at command and started by the night-mail for Paris.

Paris! Like the husband she had wronged and deserted, she had not
visited the gay city for years. Not since she had thrown in her lot
with an unspeakable villain, joining and abetting him in a vile plot
against the man to whom she was bound by the strongest ties in
life--by loyalty, affection, honour, truth.

"I hate going back there," she told herself, as the Calais express
whirled her through Abbeville, Amiens, Creil. "Hate it, dread it, more
than I can say."

And this repugnance might be interpreted into some glimmering remnant
of good feeling were it not due to vague fears of impending evil
rather than to shame and remorse.

She was landed at an early hour at the hotel she resolved to
patronise: a quiet, old-fashioned house in the best part of the Rue de
Rivoli, overlooking the gardens of the Tuileries.

She was shown to a room, and proceeded at once to correct the ravages
of the night journey. A handsome woman still, but vain, like all her
sex, and anxious to look her best on every occasion.

Hastily swallowing a cup of coffee, as soon as her toilette was
completed she issued forth and took the first cab she could find.

"To the Porte St. Martin," she said; "lose no time."

Arrived there, she alighted, dismissed the cab, and proceeded on foot
to the Faubourg St. Martin, to the house we have visited already, and
in which our friend Hyde was still a prisoner.