"I deemed that by striking the blow I should be rendering her a service as well as securing our mutual felicity. I did not know that I was preparing a living torture for myself, that I was resigning every hope, joy, and sentiment that makes life precious. No; in my frame of mind, with my intense hatred excited by the words of the woman I loved, I thought naught of the enormity of the crime, and only regarded the deed as a justifiable means of ridding her of an obnoxious and unholy tie.

She planned the crime with care and forethought, even arranging the day, the hour, the moment, that it should be committed. But there--why should I blame her when it is I who was the coward, the criminal? You will understand when I say that at ten o'clock one night I softly ascended the stairs from the boulevard, and cautiously entered Nicholson's apartments by means of a key provided by Valerie. Pa.s.sing along a short, dark pa.s.sage, I saw a light coming through the c.h.i.n.ks of the door which led into the front room that he used as a library and office. In this room was the safe in which he kept his gems, cunningly concealed behind a mock bookcase, so that anyone entering saw nothing of the great green iron doors with shining bra.s.s handles. Scarcely daring to breathe, I pushed open the door of this room, and saw my victim seated at his writing-table with his back towards me. The cosy apartment was in comparative darkness, except for the shaded reading-lamp which shed a subdued light in the vicinity of the table.

My rival had evidently only just come in, for he had not removed his Inverness coat, and was apparently engrossed in a sheet of accounts he had spread out before him. At first I faltered, but my hand struck the handle of the long, keen, surgeon's knife with which I had armed myself.

Its touch gave me courage; in a moment I remembered all that I should gain by striking the fatal blow. It was enough! I crept up behind him stealthily, and, lifting the knife, buried it almost up to the hilt in his back! He fell forward dead, without a groan."

The artist sat pale and trembling, with a clammy moisture upon his brow.

"Only for a moment I stood regarding my foul handiwork, then I turned and made my way cautiously out, descending to the boulevard and walking as fast as I could to a small cafe on the other side of the Seine, where I spent the remainder of the evening in drinking cognac."

"And what of Valerie?" asked Hugh, eager to learn the whole of this almost incredible story. "Did she keep her promise?"

"No, curse her! Two days later, when all Paris was discussing what the papers called the `Mystery of the Boulevard Haussmann.' I met her, and asked her to redeem her promise and become mine. But she only laughed and treated me with scorn, urging me to leave the city, and announcing her own departure, saying that she was afraid that the police would ascertain her relations with the murdered man, and interrogate her. In vain I implored her to allow me to accompany her, but she refused, and with a cold, formal farewell left me. The sudden change which had come over her was extraordinary, as likewise was the mysterious manner in which she afterwards disappeared. With a broken heart and a heavy burden of guilt, I, too, fled from Paris--anywhere--everywhere.

By-and-by I found consolation in my Art--but no ambition. There was a gloomy, morbid pleasure in trying to catch and reproduce those divine lineaments which hid so bad a spirit. And so I wandered from place to place in Italy, in Spain, in Germany, until I returned to London."

"When did you next meet her?" inquired Trethowen.

"Though I heard of her, discovered further proofs of her infamy, and ascertained that at the time she was pretending to love me she was living under the protection of Victor Berard, a notorious thief, I never set eyes upon her until we met her together that afternoon at Eastbourne. Then I found that she had a.s.sumed the name of Dedieu instead of Duvauchel, and that she had managed to acquire sufficient money to live in affluence."

"But why did you not warn me?" asked Hugh, with bitter reproach.

"I told you all I dared. As soon as she knew that you admired her she came to me, and threatened that if I divulged anything she would give me up to the police. Therefore I was powerless to save you, and could only give vague warnings which were worse than useless. Don't you think that the knowledge of your blind implicit trust in such a woman caused me anxiety, especially when I knew that ruin only could be the ultimate result?"

The men looked at one another earnestly; each pitied the other.

"Ah! I understand Jack," exclaimed Trethowen. "Your explanation shows that you did your best to prevent me from falling a victim. We have both been duped; but she shall not go unpunished."

"What! You mean to denounce her?" he cried, in alarm.

"Why not?"

"Because--because--I am a murderer, and she will have me arrested and tried for taking the life of her lover! Cannot you see that for my own safety we must preserve silence?"

Trethowen started as this truth flashed across his mind. He had not before thought of that contingency, and with a sinking heart was compelled to admit the truth of the a.s.sertion.

The fetters of matrimony which bound him to this woman were irrevocably welded around his life, unless, perchance, by divorce he could free himself. The "gentleman" of whom the hall-porter had spoken, who was he?

"I have a strong suspicion that it was by her plotting you were sent to New Caledonia," continued Egerton. "Depend upon it, sooner or later, we shall discover that `La Belle Hirondelle' has had a hand in it."

"What causes you to think so?" his companion asked, in amazement.

"It was to her interest that you should be imprisoned. When you were safely out of the way, with a long sentence before you, her course was quite clear."

"How?"

"Simply this: A man who died at a hotel in Antwerp was identified as yourself, a death certificate was obtained in your name, and--"

"And what then?" cried Hugh, astonished.

"Your will was proved."

"My will?"

"Yes; you left everything unreservedly to your wife, and consequently she has obtained possession of it."

"How did you know?" asked the other, dumbfounded.

The artist, without replying, went to his secretaire and took out a newspaper, which he handed to his companion.

Then he flung himself into his chair again, and sat staring blankly into the fire, his face wearing an expression of abject despair.

As Hugh read the paragraph indicated, he uttered an imprecation under his breath, and savagely flung the paper from him. Presently he placed his hand upon his friend's shoulder, exclaiming in a sad, sympathetic, voice:

"Jack, forgive me! I have judged you unjustly, for before my marriage I was jealous of you, and from the day I found Valerie here in your studio I confess I distrusted; now, however, I find you are my companion in misfortune--that you have also been duped by her. I clearly understand your inability to warn me by relating the terrible story I have just heard from your lips; I know you were powerless to prevent me falling into her cunningly-baited trap. The discovery of her infamy and exposure of her real character is, indeed, a cruel shock to me.

Nevertheless, why should our friendship be any the less sincere? Come, let's shake hands."

"No, Hugh," he replied despondently, shaking his head. "I'm unworthy to grasp the hand of any honest man."

"Why not?"

"I'm a murderer."

"M'sieur Jack does not speak the truth," interrupted a shrill, musical voice in French.

Both men started and turned in astonishment. Standing in the deep shadow at the opposite end of the studio was a tall female form, which had apparently been concealed behind a large canvas fixed upon an easel.

She had been admitted by Mrs. O'Shea, and her presence had remained unnoticed by the men, so engrossed had they been in their conversation.

They glanced at one another apprehensively, and as she advanced the artist sprang to his feet in indignation and alarm.

A moment later, when the lamplight revealed her features, he drew back in amazement.

"You--Gabrielle?" he cried.

"_Oui_, I am that unfortunate personage," she replied, with an air of nonchalance. "And, moreover, I have been an unintentional eavesdropper."

"You heard my confession?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Well--yes. It was an interesting story, yet scarcely novel--at least, to one who is better acquainted with the real facts than yourself."

"Then you knew of my crime?"

"Yes. A combination of circ.u.mstances revealed to me who it was who committed the murder."

"Ah! It was I--I who killed him," he cried wildly, glaring with haggard eyes.

Hugh stood staring at the strange visitor. Amazed at her sudden appearance, he was speechless. About twenty-eight, tall, dark, with features that were decidedly foreign, she was well-dressed, wearing a smart little sealskin cape, the collar of which was turned up around her neck, while upon her head was perched a coquettish little bonnet.

Jack Egerton recovered himself quickly, and, apologising for neglecting to introduce them, presented her to his friend as Mademoiselle Gabrielle Debriege. Then offering her his chair, he stood before her, and commenced a series of inquiries as to her movements since they last met, and what had induced her to seek him.

"This world is a very little place," she replied in broken English, and with a winning smile. "An artist is one of the easiest men to find.

Let's see, I believe it's five years ago since we last saw one another.