“No, but on our wedding-day, Louis Prasville, who acted as my husband’s best man in defiance of Daubrecq’s opposition, went home to find the girl he loved, the opera-singer, dead, strangled....”
“What!” said Lupin, with a start. “Had Daubrecq....”
“It was known that Daubrecq had been persecuting her with his attentions for some days; but nothing more was known. It was impossible to discover who had gone in or out during Prasville’s absence. There was not a trace found of any kind: nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“But Prasville....”
“There was no doubt of the truth in Prasville’s mind or ours. Daubrecq had tried to run away with the girl, perhaps tried to force her, to hustle her and, in the course of the struggle, maddened, losing his head, caught her by the throat and killed her, perhaps without knowing what he was doing. But there was no evidence of all this; and Daubrecq was not even molested.”
“And what became of him next?”
“For some years we heard nothing of him. We knew only that he had lost all his money gambling and that he was travelling in America. And, in spite of myself, I forgot his anger and his threats and was only too ready to believe that he had ceased to love me and no longer harboured his schemes of revenge. Besides, I was so happy that I did not care to think of anything but my happiness, my love, my husband’s political career, the health of my son Antoine.”
“Antoine?”
“Yes, Antoine is Gilbert’s real name. The unhappy boy has at least succeeded in concealing his identity.”
Lupin asked, with some hesitation: