"It is called Charleroi and is about thirty miles from Paris in the direction of Fontainebleau."
"Who is the director of this institution?"
"Dr. Leon Monet."
"And you suggest that it was there that she was ill-treated. Let me tell you——"
Cyril interrupted him.
"I suggest no such thing. My wife escaped from Charleroi over a week ago. We know she went to Paris, but there we lost all trace of her. Imagine my astonishment at finding her on the train this morning. How she got there, I can't think. She seemed very much agitated, but I attributed that to my presence. I have lately had a most unfortunate effect upon her. I did ask her how she got the bruise on her cheek, but she wouldn't tell me. I had no idea she was suffering. If I had been guilty of the condition she is in, is it likely that I should have brought her to a man of your reputation and character? I think that alone proves my innocence."
The doctor stared at him fixedly for a few moments as if weighing the credibility of his explanation.
"You say that the physician under whose care your wife has been is called Monet?"
"Yes, Leon Monet."
The doctor left the room abruptly. When he returned, his bearing had completely changed.