"It is impossible!"
"Do I understand you to say, Mr. Lovell, of a thing which I say is so--that it is impossible?"
The Vicomte rose. His voice had a very significant intonation. Mr. Lovell resented it.
"I do not know, Vicomte, that I am called upon to explain to you. But, in face of your remarkable statement, I will volunteer an explanation. I saw the face, which I have painted, in a dream."
"Indeed; is that so? What sort of dream was it in which you saw my wife's face, Mr. Lovell?"
The young man flushed. The stranger's tone was distinctly offensive.
"It was in a dream which I dreamt last August, at Spa."
"Ah! This is curious. At what hotel were you stopping last August at Spa?"
"At the Hôtel de Flandre--though I don't know why you ask."
"So! We approach a point at last. Last August, my wife and I, we were at Spa. We stayed, my wife and I, at the Hôtel de Flandre. It was at the Hôtel de Flandre my wife left me. I have never seen her since. Perhaps, Mr. Gerald Lovell, you will be so good as to inform me what sort of dream it was in which you saw my wife's face, at the Hôtel de Flandre, last August, at Spa?"