“You, M’sieur Henfrey, are the son of my dead friend. You have been the victim of a great and dastardly conspiracy,” she said. “But I ask your forgiveness, for I assure you that when I invited your father up from Woodthorpe I had no idea whatever of what those assassins intended.”
“Benton is already under arrest for another affair,” broke in The Sparrow quietly. “I heard so from London yesterday.”
“Ah! And I hope that Howell will also be punished for his crime,” the handsome woman cried. “Though I have been a thief, a swindler, and a decoy—ah! yes, I admit it all—I have never committed the crime of murder. I know, messieurs,” she went on—“I know that I am a social outcast, the mysterious Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, they call me! But I have suffered. I have indeed in these past months paid my debt to Society, and of you, Mr. Henfrey, I beg forgiveness.”
“I forgive you, Mademoiselle,” Hugh replied, grasping her slim, white hand.
“Mademoiselle will, I hope, meet Miss Ranscomb, Mr. Henfrey’s fiancee, and tell her the whole truth,” said The Sparrow.
“That I certainly will,” Yvonne replied. “Now that I can think I shall be allowed to leave this place—eh?”
“Of course. I will see after that,” said the man known as Mr. Peters. “You must return to the Villa Amette—for you are still Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, remember! Leave it all to me.” And he laughed happily.
“But we are no nearer the solution of the mystery as to who attempted to kill you, Mademoiselle,” Hugh remarked.
“There can be but one person. Old Cataldi knows who it is,” she answered.
“Cataldi? Then why has he not told me? I questioned him closely only the other day,” said The Sparrow.