“No, none. I have been the victim of a foul conspiracy, in which you, my old and best friend, have assisted,” he replied bitterly.
“Why, Hugh, what do you mean? Of what do you accuse me?”
“Valérie was your mistress!”
“Valérie!” he cried, starting up. “I—indeed, I—”
“It is useless to deny it,” interrupted Hugh coolly. “Your villainy has been exposed to me. Perhaps in your endeavour to prove your innocence you will disclaim acquaintance with Victor Bérard, with ‘La Petite Hirondelle’ or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who—”
The colour left the artist’s countenance at the mention of the latter name.
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely, clutching his companion’s arm, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. “What is this you say? What do you allege?”
“That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder in the Boulevard Haussmann!”
Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixed upon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as if the words had not disturbed him.
“How have you discovered that, pray?” he asked, with a calmness that was forced.