At last the man knew that he who was before him had not been turned to stone, had not died standing there erect. From that livid line formed of two compressed lips, a voice issued and said:--
"The prison of St. Martin des Champs! And--deported--to--America! Is this true? You swear it?"
"Before Heaven and all the angels."
There was another pause, another moment of statuelike calm. Then, again, that voice asked:--
"Whose doing was it? Who sent her--there?"
"The noble--the man they termed a Duke. The man she had jilted for you."
"Come with me. I--I--can walk, move, now."
* * * * * *
They were seated opposite to each other in Walter Clarges' room half an hour later, and the fellow, who had by such a strange chance been brought into contact with him, had told his tale, or partly told it. He had described how he had been one of those employed by another who worked under "the man they termed a Duke," to assist in falling on him who was now before him; how they, the attackers, had left him for dead, and how they had been bidden to follow to this very house to assist in another matter.
"She lay there--there," he said, "when we came in," and he pointed to a spot at the side of the table; "dead, too, as we all thought. He and his creature, the man who gave you your coup de grâce, as we imagined.--I--I cannot remember his name----"