Something in the tone startled her, and the gentle voice, the respectful gesture, acted like a charm. She replied courteously, with a polite inclination of the head, ‘I am not very well, monsieur; I have been ill for some time.’
‘I am very sorry. If you will take my advice you will go home—you are not fit to be in the streets.’
She gazed at him strangely, and then said—
‘Pardon, monsieur, but you are not a Frenchman?’
‘No.’
‘I think I have seen your face before? You have been abroad,—in Brussels?’
As she spoke, something in her form and face seemed familiar; with an exclamation he took her by the arm, and drew her close under the light of the lamp.
‘Is it possible?’ he cried. ‘Adèle Lambert? Do you remember me?’
That she did so was now clear; for with a hysterical cry she shrank from him and hid her face in her hands. Two years before, in Brussels, he had found this poor creature, then a pretty girl, in the power of infamous people, who had decoyed her to ruin; with infinite trouble and great pecuniary expense he had released her and restored her to her friends; and when he had last heard of her she seemed on the threshold of a new and purer life. And now, this was the sequel! He shuddered in horror, as he looked upon her spectral face.
‘My poor girl,’ he said gently, ‘what brought you to England?’