conceal herintense love for the man who was reported dead.
"Why," she answered slowly, "I know that she--but--indeed, I knownothing," she added hysterically.
"That's not the truth," he said reproachfully.
"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, what I know I shall keep secret. The timemay come when I shall have my revenge upon the woman who has robbed meof the man I love--the vile, heartless woman who has killed him."
"You cannot prove that he met with his death by foul means," he saidreflectively. "The report says he died suddenly--nothing more. Readfor yourself," and he handed her the paper, at the same time pointing tothe paragraph.
"Then she has obtained all his money?" Dolly observed mechanically,after she had glanced at it. "Is not that sufficient motive for hisdeath?"
The artist admitted that it was. The unutterable sadness of ten minutesbefore had given place to a strange apprehensive dread. It was clearthat Dolly was in possession of some facts connected with the hiddenpages of the Frenchwoman's history. In that case, he told himself, itwas more than probable she would ultimately discover his own secret--thesecret which fettered him to this clever, handsome adventuress, even ifshe were not acquainted with it already. His heart sank within him ashe recognised that alienation and loathing would be the inevitableresult Dolly would shrink from his touch as from some unclean thing.She would regard him as a debased criminal.
He tried to fix upon some means by which to ascertain the extent of herinformation. The thought suggested itself that he should tell hersomething of Valerie's history, and lead her on to divulge what sheknew. Such a course, however, did not commend itself to him. He wasbound to preserve the secret, for full well he knew that Valerie'sthreats were never idle--that she would show him no mercy if hedivulged.
Thus he was as powerless as before. The maddening thought flashedthrough his mind that a plain, straightforward statement of facts toHugh when first he had met her would have obviated his ruin andprevented his death.
To and fro he paced the studio in a frenzy of grief and despair.
The pretty model watched him for a moment, then, sinking upon a couch,and covering her face with her hands, burst into a torrent of tears.Unable to control her bitter sorrow, her pent-up feelings obtained ventin a manner that was heart-rending to the kind, sensitive man who stoodbefore her.
"Dolly, I know what a terrible blow this is to you," said hesympathetically, removing her hat, and tenderly stroking her hair. "Youloved him?"
She did not answer at once, hesitating even then to admit the truth.
"Yes," she sobbed at last, "I did. You little know what I have enduredfor his sake."
"Ah! I can well understand. You loved him dearly, yet he left you forthe woman who exercised a fatal fascination upon him. With scarcely aword of farewell, he cast your love aside and offered Valerie marriage.I know the depth of your disappointment and terrible sorrow. Don'tthink that because I have never made love to you that I am utterlydevoid of affection. I loved--once--and it brought me grief quite aspoignant as yours; therefore I can sympathise with you."
He spoke with sadness, and with a heavy sigh passed his hand with awearygesture across his care-lined brow.
"It's so foolish of me," she murmured apologetically, in a low, brokenvoice. "I ought not to have made this confession."
"Why not? I had noticed it long ago. Love always betrays itself."
Lifting her sad, tear-stained face, she looked earnestly into his eyes.
"What can you think of me, Jack?" she asked.
"Think of you?" he repeated. "Why, the same as I have always done--thatyou are an upright, honest woman. Neither blame nor dishonour attachesto you. When he left you so cruelly, you bore your sorrow bravely,thinking, no doubt, that some day he might return and make you happy.Was not that so?"
She nodded an affirmative. Her gaze was fixed thoughtfully on thecanvas which stood on an easel behind him; her slim, white hands werecrossed in front of her.
"Since we parted," she said, in a strained, broken voice, as if speakingto herself, "he has been uppermost in my thoughts. Often when I havebeen alone, indulging in dreamy musings, I have looked up and seemed tosee him standing contemplating me. Then all the regret has fled from myheart, and paradise has stolen in. He has spoken to me, smiled at me,as he did in those pleasant days when first we knew each other. Yetnext moment the vision would fade before my eyes, and I have foundmyself deceived by a mere chimera, tricked by an idle fancy. But now heis dead: gone from me never to return--never."
And she again gave way to tears, sobbing bitterly.
"Come, come, Dolly," said the artist, again passing his hand lightlyover her hair, endeavouring to soothe her; "don't be downhearted. Yoursis a cruel and heavy sorrow, I know; but try to bear up against it, tryto think that perhaps, as you suggested, he is not dead. Even if youhave lost your lover, you have in me a true and trusted friend."
"Yes, I know," she sobbed brokenly. "You are my only friend. It isextremely kind of you to talk like this; yet you cannot know the extentof my love for him."
"I quite realise how much you cared for him," he said slowly, in apained voice. "If he had married you, his life would have been peacefuland happy. Fate, however, decreed different, and, that being the case,you must try to forget him."
"Forget him! Never!" she cried. Then recovering herself, she added:"Excuse what I say; I hardly know what I've been telling you."
"Whatever has passed between us will always be kept secret," he assuredher.
"Ah! I feel sure you will tell no one; you are always loyal to awoman."
"Now, promise to think less about him," he urged, looking down into hergrief-stricken face.
"I cannot," she replied firmly. "Somehow, I don't believe that he isdead. I shall endeavour to clear up the mystery and ascertain thetruth."
"And I will render you what assistance I can. Count upon my help," hesaid enthusiastically. "We'll get at the real facts somehow or other."
"You are very kind," she answered, drying her tears, and putting on herveil before the mirror. "I have a terrible headache, and am fit fornothing to-day, so I'll go home."
To this proposal the artist offered no objection. Her inconsolablegrief pained him, and he wanted to be alone to think; so, grasping herhand warmly, he again urged her to bear up under her burden, and watchedher walk slowly out, with bowed head and uneven steps.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
THE ENGLISHMAN OF THE BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN.
A calm, boundless waste of sunlit sea. Three men, haggard, blear-eyed,and staring, sat in dejected attitudes in a small, open boat. Theblazing noonday sun beat down mercilessly upon their uncovered heads,reflecting from the water's unruffled surface, blinding them by itsintense glare.
There was not the faintest breath of wind, not a speck upon theclearly-defined horizon--nothing but the wide, brilliant expanse of thePacific. Long ago all hope of rescue had been abandoned. One of theragged, unkempt trio was lashed tightly to the thwarts for, havingslaked his thirst with sea water, he had developed insanity, and hiscompanions had bound him fast where he sat, wide-eyed and dishevelled,giving vent at frequent intervals to the drivel of an idiot, plentifullypunctuated with horrible imprecations.
The two others, thin-faced, careworn, and anxious, sat silent,motionless, in blank, unutterable despair. Ever and anon their aching,bloodshot eyes wandered wearily around in search of a passing sail, butnever once had a mast been sighted, for they were out of the track ofthe ships. In dress each bore a resemblance to the other, inasmuch asnumbers were painted conspicuously on their backs, while the wrists ofthe one who had become demented were still in bracelets of rusted steel,although the connecting link had been broken. They were three bearded,dirty, repulsive-looking criminals, who, having been so far successfulas to escape from New Caledonia, had discovered, to their dismay andhorror, that their bold dash for liberty had been in vain--that they hadescaped their taskmasters only to be ultimately overc
ome by thirst andstarvation.
The heat was awful. The blazing sun parched their mouths, and set theirbrains aflame with fever. Though now and then they sucked the hornhilts of their knives in an endeavour to alleviate the all-consumingthirst, yet their throats were too dry to utter scarcely a syllable.Rowing was useless, conversation was useless, hope was useless.Abandoned to despair, they were patiently awaiting the moment when bodyand soul would part. They suffered most because they still remainedsane.
Six days ago Hugh Trethowen and two fellow-prisoners had been told offfrom the labour gang to convey stones from the seashore to a spotseveral miles distant, where a road was being made through the forest.Unaccompanied by the warder, they had made several