Frank wiped his brow; an immense load was lifted from his soul. “That accounts for it,” he said slowly, “I felt sure I could not have committed such an act in an ordinary state without retaining some recollection of the circumstance. And yet,” he added moodily, “if I am accused, who can prove that I did it in this unconscious state? Not you, Fenella; according to Mme. de Vigny, at least.”
“Just so,” said Lucille, speaking for the first time. “You are his wife, Lady Francis, and the law will not accept you as a witness. There is no one who can prove it, and therefore, the deduction I leave to you.”
“Pardon me,” said Jacynth, stepping calmly forward. “There is somebody—Lord Castleton. He has lately told me so. It appears, my dear Onslow, that he saw you subsequently, when you were suffering from a precisely similar attack. You stabbed madly, blindly, without being in the least aware of your actions.”
“Another murder?” cried the horrified Frank. “Oh, the horror, the black, hopeless horror of it! To be doomed to these deeds of blood, and never to suspect it till too late. Jacynth, I think I shall go mad.”
“There is no necessity, my dear boy,” said the barrister kindly. “Fortunately, on this particular occasion you were armed with no more formidable weapon than a roll of paper, or else, had there been a victim at hand, which providentially there was not, the consequences might indeed have been disastrous.”
Frank’s countenance cleared once more; he could embrace his wife now with a clear conscience, and accordingly he turned with extended arms. “Fenella,” he cried, “Mrs. Right!”
“Doggie, my own Doggie!” was the ringing response, and the pair were folded in one another’s arms. Jacynth had turned away. Pardon him, reader, if at that supreme moment of reconciliation his own heart was too sore and bitter to bear the sight of the happiness which had been mainly his own work. Devoted friend, self-contained, distinguished barrister as he was, he was still many removes from an angel. But the sound of the old pet names, the names she remembered on the envelope returned to Chiddingford from the Dead Letter Office, seemed to exasperate Lucille de Vigny to a fury that would not have disgraced a fiend. It must be remembered, in justice to her, that she had loved this man with all the ardor of a passionate, undisciplined nature, she had lost him, had been on the verge of recapturing him, and now he had escaped her once more, and something told her that this time it was forever!
“Very pretty, my faith!” she said, with a bitter laugh of mingled rage and despair. “Quelle innocence, mon Dieu! You have defenders—is it not?—who combine military duties with a naval footing? How do you call them, hein? I forget.”
“Possibly, madame,” suggested Jacynth gravely, “you refer to the Marines?”
“The Marines—it is that, yes. Well, tell this fine story to them—to your Marines. Or, better still, for I hear them, they are here at last, to your detectives, and see what they will say to you!” Her fine instinct had not deceived her this time; almost before she had finished speaking a couple of men in plain clothes came into the room. They had the sharp, roving eye of the trained sleuthhound, and one of them carried a pair of steel handcuffs.