They were within about fifty yards of the place, when Claude reeled and would have fallen but for the lawyer’s strong arm.
“Take my advice,” he whispered gently. “You can do no good, and you are not strong enough to go through such an interview as this.”
“I am better now,” she said feebly. “A little faint, that is all.”
“Put it off till another day.”
“No,” she said more faintly. “It is a duty to him. I will not believe that it can be true.”
Trevithick was silent.
“Let us go on now,” she said; and they had nearly reached the prison gates when there was a quick step, and a tall, fashionably-dressed woman stepped before them.
“Where are you going?” she said sharply in a strangely accented way.
“To see Mr Glyddyr, madam,” said Claude, meekly. “I am his wife.”
“You! Bah! You are nothing, girl,” cried the woman, her dark eyes blazing with vindictive spite. “He is mine. He married me five years ago from his yacht, in Marseilles. Yes, I, Denise Leschalles. Yes. And you, my faith, what could I not do to you?”