She doubted no longer that he knew the truth. Hot blood flushed her cheeks crimson. This man shared her secret, then—this man who had twice insulted her in as many minutes.
“I remember Mr. Brandon North, certainly,” she exclaimed, making a supreme effort to retain her self-control; “he was one of my husband’s friends.”
The man nodded his head cunningly.
“I am sure of it—as he is a friend of yours, Madame. You will be glad on that account to know that he is still in Strasburg.”
She was not actress enough to restrain the cry which came to her lips.
“Still in Strasburg, Monsieur—Mr. North in Strasburg!”
He took her by the arm and began to speak with a familiarity which he claimed of his knowledge.
“Listen,” he said; “you can trust me. When he left you last Sunday—do not mind that I know—I am a man of honour—when he left you last Sunday he meant to go back to his German friends. But a little accident happened, Madame—you never thought of that. He wished to leave us, but he was not able. At the corner of the Rue de Kehl a gun-carriage crushed his ankle. He fell fainting, but it was I who helped him up. ‘He is the good friend of Madame Lefort,’ I said; ‘he shall suffer nothing at my hands, for I am sure he is not here to spy out our secrets. And he is in Strasburg now, at the house of Madame Clairon in the Rue de l’Arc-en-Ciel. He waits for you to go there; you will not disappoint him.”
He released her hand, and with a familiar salute, the meaning of which was unmistakable, he left her. His words were as a blow upon her face. She knew that the life of her friend was in this man’s keeping—the gift of one who had put upon her the ultimate insult.