“By the newspaper.”
“Dead! Hugh dead! I can’t—no, I won’t believe it,” she cried wildly. “There must be some mistake.”
“He died suddenly at Antwerp,” Jack said mechanically.
“You mean he has been killed—that his wife is a murderess.”
“Hush, Dolly,” he exclaimed quickly; “you cannot prove that, remember.”
“Oh, can’t I? If he has been murdered, I will discover the truth. Her past is better known to me than she imagines. I’ll denounce Valérie Duvauchel as the woman who—”
“Why, how did you know that was her name?” he asked in amazement and undisguised alarm.
“What was I saying? Forgive me if I made any unjust remark, but I could not help it,” she urged. “It is all so sudden—and—and he is dead.”
She knew she had said too much, and tried to hide her confusion in the intense grief which his announcement had caused.
“You said her name was Duvauchel?” he said quietly.