“So it would have been at the English Embassy,” Courtlaw answered, “but the place to which you went was not the English Embassy. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before.”
“But Hainault—was—a pal. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily.
“Hainault was Celeste’s friend, and Celeste was Annabel’s enemy,” Courtlaw said. “It was a plot amongst them all to humiliate her.”
“Then she has never been my wife.”
“Never for a second. She is the wife now of another man.”
Hill closed his eyes. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Then he opened them again suddenly, to find Courtlaw still by his side.
“It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. And I heard ‘Alcide’ sing, and that little dance she did. I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. He shook his head all the time. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. But one day he came to me. It was Celeste’s idea. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. We were alike. He was—a millionaire. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. God help me.”
Courtlaw was alarmed at the man’s pallor.
“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. The doctor will be here to see you in five minutes. The nurse sent for him as soon as she saw that you were conscious. It is very possible that he will ask you to tell him before witnesses how you received your wound.”
The man smiled at him.