Part 52 (2/2)

”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 friends.h.i.+p 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.

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