Yes, there they were, her husband and Jehane; the latter was laughing, luring him on—and she was young; oh, so young!
The woman watched, fascinated.
Charles bade Jehane good-bye, promising to come again. He kissed her tenderly, passed through the gate; his steps were heard muffled along the lane.
Jehane blew him a kiss, and then fastened the little door.
A distant clock boomed out eleven strokes, and a pair of hands stole round the girl's throat, burying themselves deep, deep in the white flesh.
"And the husband, was he an accessory after the fact?" inquired the Boy.
"Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, said nothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn't proved."
The Host moved uneasily in his chair.
"Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never been cleared up?" he asked. "Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder from his window, and fixed it on the canvas?"