“You are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after Ingram had left?” repeated Deane, as though not yet satisfied.
“Absolutely.”
Dick Deane turned his eyes full upon me, and I divined his thoughts. He was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered that room. He was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her secret.
“My mother knows that I am recovering?” she went on. “If she does not, please tell her. She has been so distressed of late that this must have been the crowning blow to her.”
“I have told madame your mother everything,” I said. “Do not be uneasy on her account.”
“Ah,” she sighed, “how I regret that we came to Paris! I regret it all, Gerald, save that you and I have met again;” and she stretched out her hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she toyed like a child.
“And this meeting has really given you satisfaction?” I whispered to her, heedless of the presence of the others.
“Not only satisfaction,” she answered, so softly that I alone could catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of passionate affection which can never be simulated; “it has given back to me a desire for happiness, for life, for love.”
There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and her small hand trembled within my grasp. My heart at that moment was too full for mere words. True, I loved her with a mad fondness that I had never before entertained for any woman; yet, nevertheless, a hideous shadow arose between us, shutting her off from me for ever—the shadow of her secret—the secret that she, my well-beloved, was actually a spy.