At two o'clock Richard De Jarnette came. He found her in the library. With that strange restlessness and presentiment of coming ill which possessed her, she was looking over papers in her desk and putting things in place. A waste basket beside her was half filled with old letters. From the drawer just emptied she had taken a revolver of peculiar workmanship. It was one belonging to her husband, which he had left in the desk. She was taking it up with the intention of carrying it to his room, but when the servant announced Mr. De Jarnette, she laid it hastily on the top of the desk and put the drawer back. When she rose to meet her brother-in-law she took hold of the desk to steady herself, for she had a feeling that this visit was upon no trifling errand. As she did so her hand touched the revolver, and she drew back.
"It is Victor's," she said, "I was putting it away."
He looked at the revolver, taking in as people do sometimes in the crises of their lives the details of its curious workmanship.
He wasted no time in formalities. He had come to ask her about Victor. Did she know anything about him—where he was?
No. She did not know he had gone away. She was controlling herself by so strong an effect that her voice sounded hard. Where was he? Had any message come from him?
Richard De Jarnette had not had much experience in dealing with women. He took from his pocket a telegram and handed it to her. It was dated New York. She held it with unsteady hand and read:
"Wire me two thousand dollars—Paris—Credit Lyonnais. Sail to-night.
Victor De Jarnette."
She grew white as the dead.
"You knew nothing of this?" he asked.