And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be.

He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present.

It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed--different indeed to the black gown and print ap.r.o.n of those Paris days.

He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English:

"Well, Jean!"

Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed.

The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand.

"Yes, it's me--Ralph Ansell, your husband!"

"You!" she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. "I--I----The papers said you were dead--that--that----"

"I know," he laughed. "The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California."

"Hoggan!" she echoed, looking about her in dismay.

"Yes--and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean."

She was silent. What could she say?

Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her in all its evil 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 a.s.sure 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 my husband's possession--locked up in his safe."

"Your husband!" repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.

"Yes," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "I have married, believing that you were dead."

"And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!" he laughed, with a sneer.

She said nothing.

At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single blow--that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last fallen to crush her.

No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother, but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an a.s.sa.s.sin to boot.

Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for a.s.sistance in that dark hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in G.o.d, supported her at that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her breath.

The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.

"I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again," she said simply.

"Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he knows how you've deceived him."

"I have told him no lie!"

"No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes."

"Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes," she replied. "The affair is not forgotten, I a.s.sure you. And a word from me will sentence you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve."