"I was afraid when I saw the lady and I meant to mention it sooner!"
"Most charming woman!" declared M. Merivel, unctuously, "Artistic! Good-looking!"
"I met her at Buenos Ayres," explained Laroque, "She hadn't a son to bless herself with and was picking up a living around a café. There's no harm in her but she's taking a lot of trash—morphine, ether, opium and that sort of stuff—to help her forget, she says. She's a married woman, you know. Wife of a man in a good position and quite a shining light at the bar, she says."
"Really!" exclaimed M. Perissard, with interest, and he exchanged a glance with his colleague.
"Yes," went on Laroque carelessly, "Deputy Attorney in Paris, I believe. She was false to him and he turned her out."
M. Merivel's upraised hands indicated that he was shocked.
"Oh dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he groaned with a sigh like the roar of a tornado, "Even the morals of our magistrates and leading lawyers are not above suspicion these degenerate days!"
"Have some more wine!" laughed Laroque, filling his glass. But M. Perissard hardly heard either of them.
"Was this long ago?" he demanded eagerly.
"Twenty years ago," replied the young man, settling back in his chair. "She says she went to England shortly after he turned her out. Since then she has been to America, Colombia, Brazil, all over the place—sometimes rich and sometimes poor. When I met her she was dying to get back to France and didn't have a centime, so I brought her with me. Never liked to travel alone," he added with a grin.