He paused, and for a moment there was silence. The Frenchman’s face went very pale, his smile became even more baleful, as he saw Forster rise slowly from his seat and point to the door.
‘That is enough,’ he exclaimed; ‘leave my house. If we stood face to face beneath any other roof but mine, I’d kill you like a dog.’
‘Monsieur, you do not understand.’
‘Not understand! You villain, I understand too well. I know what you have done. I know what you would do. You made my wife’s life a hell; you tortured her into her grave; and now instead of feeling any pity for your victim, you come to me and ask me to pay you money to keep you from slandering her name. Leave my house, or as sure as there is a God above us I’ll have you whipped like a cur into the street!’
Forster was trembling from head to foot with rage. The Frenchman, who was still cool, turned to speak, but one look in the other’s face silenced him. He made two steps towards the door; there he paused. He felt in his pocket, drew forth a card, wrote rapidly upon it, then turned to Forster again.
‘Monsieur,’ he said quietly, ‘that is my address for three days at least. I leave it, in case you may wish to write to me.’
So saying, and with a profound bow, he took his leave. Scarcely had the door closed upon the Frenchman when Sutherland burst excitedly into the room.
‘Mr. Forster,’ he said, ‘once more will you do me a favour for your wife’s sake?’
But Forster seemed deaf to his words. He sank into his chair, murmuring, in heart-broken tones—
‘Madeline! my poor murdered wife 1’