"I was put out of there," she went on, hurriedly and evenly, yet with a vibrata of passion in her crowded utterance. "There wasn't a penny left—the pupils I had gave up their lessons. What they had heard or found out I don't know. Then I got a tiny room in the rue de Sèvres. I sold my last thing, then our wedding ring, even, to get it."
"And then what?"
"I still waited—I thought you would know, or find out, and that in some way or other I should still hear from you. I would have gone to the police, or advertised, but I knew it wouldn't be safe."
Once more the embittering consciousness of some dark coalition of forces against them swept over him. Fate, at every step, had frustrated them.
"I advertised twice, in the Herald?"
"Where would I see the Herald?"
"But you must have known I was trying to find you—that I was doing everything possible!"
"I knew nothing," she answered, in her poignantly emotionless voice. And the thought swept through Durkin that something within her had withered and died during those last grim weeks of suffering.
"But here—how did you get here—and what's this Lady Boxspur business?" he still insisted.
"Yes, yes," she almost moaned, "if you'll only wait I'll tell you. But is it safe to stay here? Have you thought where we are?"