CHAPTER XIII
THE KING OF THE APACHES
Wilhelmina was resting—and looked in need of it. All the delicate colours and fluttering ribbons of her Doucet dressing-jacket could not hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the hollows under her eyes. Macheson, who came in sternly enough, felt himself moved to a troublous pity. Nothing seemed left of the great lady—or the “poseuse”!
“You are kind,” she murmured, “to come so soon. Sit down, please!”
“Is there any trouble?” he asked. “You look worried.”
She laughed unnaturally.
“No wonder,” she answered. “For five years I have been living more or less on the brink of a volcano. From what I have heard, I fancy that an eruption is about due.”
“Tell me about it,” he asked.
She passed him a telegram. It was from Paris, and it was signed Gilbert Deyes.
“Jean le Roi was free yesterday. Left immediately for England.”