“Yes. She won’t hear of money. She wants revenge.”
“Give me her name and address.”
“Celestine—” The rest was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Well?” said Watts.
The door was opened, and a footman entered. “If you please, Mr. D’Alloi, there’s a Frenchwoman at the door who wants to see you. She won’t give me her name, but says you’ll know who it is.”
“Say I won’t see her. That I’m busy.”
“She told me to say that if you were engaged, she’d see Mrs. D’Alloi.”
“My God!” said Watts, under his breath.
“Ask the woman to come in here,” said Peter, quietly, but in a way which made the man leave the room without waiting to see if Watts demurred.
A complete silence followed. Then came the rustle of skirts, and a woman entered the room. Peter, who stood aside, motioned to the footman to go, and closed the door himself, turning the key.
The woman came to the middle of the room. “So, Monsieur D’Alloi,” she said in French, speaking very low and distinctly, “you thought it best not to order your groom to turn me out, as you did that last day in Paris, when you supposed your flight to America left you free to do as you pleased? But you did not escape me. Here I am.”