“A man who called himself the Consul at Campecho, and to whose early history I am disposed to suspect I have the clew, but to whom, unfortunately, in a hasty moment, I betrayed that secret knowledge.”
“And thus he dreads and hates you,” said she, fixing her dark eyes sternly on me.
“He rather fears me without reason,” said I.
“But still you would have traded on that fear, had it served your purpose?” reiterated she, with a pointedness that showed how the application to her own case was uppermost in her thoughts.
“You are less than just to me, Señhora!” said I, proudly. “A variety of circumstances led me to connect this man with a very unhappy incident which took place years ago in England, and wherein his conduct—supposing him to be the same—was base to the last degree. This suspicion I was weak enough to let escape me. His enmity was the consequence, and from it followed all the misfortunes I have suffered.”
“Was he a murderer?”
“No,—not that.”
“Nor a forger?—for methinks in English esteem such is the parallel offence.”
“In the case I speak of, forgery was the least of his crimes: he seduced the wife of his friend and benefactor.”
“Oh, the wretch!” exclaimed she, with a derisive smile that gave her features—beautiful as they were—an almost demoniac expression. “I trust he never prospered after such iniquity.”