The boy was in a fever of agitation.
“Is she really that—that sort?” he said.
My Campaspe fell upon his neck.
“O, my dear, O, my dear, I am so sorry!” she sobbed.
He put her roughly, but not unkindly, away.
“I’m—I’m going back to England—to the governor,” he said.
“Carabas,” I demanded privately, as we returned to the hotel, “is it a fact that——?”
“The husband is here? No, monsieur; it is not a fact.”
“But——”
“It was a cause célèbre. I was confident I recognized madame from the published prints. For the rest, it was just a chance shot; but it hit the mark.”