I was thankful to be rid of him. I dare not question him further. I could not trust myself to do so; for his words had summoned that black horde of doubts to the attack once more, and this time they would not be vanquished.
Small wonder that I had not found Anne Pendennis at Berlin! What was she doing at Ostend, in company with “a swagger set” that included a Russian Grand Duke? I had heard many rumors concerning this Loris, whom I had never seen; rumors that were the reverse of discreditable to him. He was said to be different from most of his illustrious kinsfolk, inasmuch that he was an enthusiastic disciple of Tolstoy, and had been dismissed from the Court in disgrace, on account of his avowed sympathy with the revolutionists.
But what connection could he have with Anne Pendennis?
And she,—she! Were there any limits to her deceit, her dissimulation? She was a traitress certainly; perhaps a murderess.
And yet I loved her, even now. I think even more bitter than my disillusion was the conviction that I must still love her, though I had lost her—forever!
CHAPTER XI
“LA MORT OU LA VIE!”
I took a cab from the newspaper office to Von Eckhardt’s address,—a flat in the west end.