So terrible was the shock that Camille thought she was going to fall down dead at her husband’s feet, slain by shame and despair at her own ignominy.
But her heart kept beating on, though wildly and tumultuously. Her trembling limbs still upheld her, and by degrees, as he forbore to speak, some of her native audacity returned to her. She determined to make one bold effort to regain lost ground.
She lifted her drooping lids, gazed at him appealingly, and cried:
“Oh, Norman, how you startled me! I—I—did not know you were here! I have lost one of my diamond rings—the prettiest one I had—and I’ve been searching for it everywhere. You haven’t seen it, have you, dear?”
CHAPTER XVIII.
Camille waited breathlessly for her husband’s answer. After a moment’s silence it came, sternly, yet with infinite sadness:
“Camille, have pity on your immortal soul, and do not blacken it further by such terrible perjuries! You have lost no ring. You were searching for the bouquet that Robert Lacy brought to you at this spot yesterday—the bouquet that I found when I came back this morning to escort you to the inquest.”
“You—you!” she almost shrieked.
“Be quiet, unless you wish to draw listeners to the spot,” he said, sharply. “Yes, I found the flowers, Camille. When I heard the evidence at the inquest I wondered what had become of the flowers Lord Stuart had sent you. I thought they would form an important link in the chain of evidence. Some instinct drove me to search for them on my way home. I found them. There were clots of blood on the green leaves redder than the fading red roses, and the note among the flowers was dyed crimson, too. In this cool and shady spot the stains were scarcely dry. I was frightened, Camille. I took the bouquet home and hid it, and at the inquest I dared not say one word about it. Yet I hoped that the man had committed suicide—”
“Oh, he did—I swear he—” Camille interrupted, eagerly; but he frowned her coldly down.