Again he passed through the thronged apartments, through the dancing saloons, into the conservatory, the little study, out upon a little balcony, chill with the winter twilight. They were in none of these. He ascended to the dressing-rooms, passing on until he reached his wife's chamber—that sacred, secluded room, into which he never entered unbidden. He paused before the door with an icy heart and hand. He heard voices—his voice and hers in earnest conversation; he heard him say:
"And now, Annie, before we go, let me thank you again and again for all you have done for me."
"Let us hasten," was the low reply, "before Leger misses us. Oh, dear! he will be so surprised."
The chill left the listening husband, and a hot fever of rage took its place. Flinging the door wide open, he stepped in.
"Not so surprised, madam, as you may think. I have guessed at your secret days ago."
Annie was about to make some answer to this; but when she met his eyes, she grew white and said nothing.
"As for you, Maurice Gurnell, I will not kill so mean a man as you. I will not even strike so base a thing. Only take her with you, and get out of my presence forever;" and with a slight, contemptuous gesture toward his wife, he turned upon his heel.
"Stay!" cried Maurice; "you are mad, Leger. Let us explain;" but he continued down the hall, till Annie, with a faint cry, sprung to his side, grasping his arm.
"Leger Carollyn!"
He flung off her hand, and she shrunk back into her chamber; but before he had reached the turn in the hall which led to the dressing-rooms, a slight figure, robed in white, with a long vail sweeping about the floating drapery, sprung before him, seized both his hands, and commenced talking rapidly in French—so rapidly, that he, not of late days very familiar with the sounds, hardly understood her, but he was compelled to hear enough to rivet his attention.