“Who’s Aimee?”
“My wife.”
A groan escaped the almost distracted husband.
No greater rascal than Pierre Jacquet called Paris home, and that is a very broad statement. Yet Monsieur Jacquet was devotedly fond of his wife, and he could have forgiven her for her escapade, even then, if she appealed to him. Not so the man who had stolen the woman’s affections.
Pierre had crossed the ocean with the avowed intention of recovering his wife, and avenging his honor. He owned a prosperous cabaret in Paris, and the two Americans had been his guests during a stay they made in that city.
“I do not know the lady to whom you refer,” said Enoch coolly.
“You don’t know Aimee?”
Jacquet seemed overwhelmed with astonishment.
“No.”
“I mean my wife.”