‘No; he wanted to marry me, not to kill me.’
‘Have you any enemy, then, who would do such a thing?’
‘Yes; my husband.’
‘But he is dead.’
‘He disappeared,’ corrected Madame, ‘but it was never proved that he was dead. He was a revengeful, wicked man, and if he could have killed me, without hurting himself, he would,’ and rising from her seat she paced up and down the room slowly.
‘I know your sad story,’ said the barrister, ‘and also how your husband disappeared; but, to my mind, looking at all the circumstances, you will not be troubled with him again.’
A sudden exclamation made him turn his head, and he saw Madame Midas, white as death, staring at the open French window, on the threshold of which was standing a man—medium height, black beard, and a haggard, hunted look in his eyes.
‘Who is this?’ cried Calton, rising to his feet.
Madame Midas tottered, and caught at the mantelpiece for support.
‘My husband,’ she said, in a whisper.