“What’s that?”
A faint sound. Was it Crampton returning?
He stood listening, his brow glistening with the cold perspiration; and as he remained breathless and intent, he seemed to see again the office as it was on the previous night, almost totally dark, the safe opened, and the shadowy figure of Van Heldre dashing at him.
Was it fancy, or was the place really dark? A curious mist was before his eyes, but all was silent; and he went down on his knees, turned to a waste-paper basket upside down—the torn letters, envelopes, and circulars forming a heap on the well-worn Turkey carpet; but no piece of metal fell out with a low pat.
“It is here; it is here; it shall be here,” he panted; and then he sprang to his feet shivering with shame and dread, face to face with Madelaine Van Heldre, who, pale with emotion, heavy-eyed with weeping, but erect and stern, flashed upon him a look full of anger and contempt.
“Ah, Madelaine!” he stammered, “have you seen a half-written letter—must be here somewhere—left on my desk?”
“Henri des Vignes—the soul of honour!” she said bitterly. “Have you fallen so low as this?”
“I—I don’t understand you.”
“You coward! And you can lie to me—the woman you professed to love!”
“Madelaine, for pity’s sake.”