Rushing to my wife’s boudoir, I broke open her escritoire, bent upon ascertaining the nature of any letters she might have concealed there.
There were many. Ah, Dieu! When I think of the passionate love-missives penned by the man whom I had implicitly trusted, and admitted to my home as a friend, my brain is lashed to frenzy.
One discovery I made was startling. Several of the letters bore the stamp of twenty-five centimes, and their envelopes were addressed to “Mademoiselle Halima Fathma, care of Hadj Hassan, Douéra Algérie.”
Searching further, I discovered a full-length cabinet photograph, taken in Algiers. It was of Valerie dressed as the Sheikh’s daughter, with the exception that the adjar, which had hidden the Arab girl’s face, had been removed.
In my surprise I almost forgot the terrible tragedy.
Continuing the investigation of the odds and ends in her private drawer, I found an Arab head ornament and several bracelets. The pattern of the crescent-shaped sequins I recognised as the same as those worn by the mysterious Halima.
These discoveries, combined with the contents of the letters which I hastily scanned, left no doubt that Halima and Valerie were the same person; and, further, that Hassan, the wealthy Sheikh of the Ahamellen, who had a house at Douéra, was really her father; and that Monsieur de Noirville had brought her up, and educated her to the ways of civilised society.
When I had left for Algeria, it had been her caprice to follow me, and rejoin her people.
She had saved my life, yet I had killed her.
But though so fair, she was false—false!