The artist, without replying, went to his secretaire and took out a newspaper, which he handed to his companion.
Then he flung himself into his chair again, and sat staring blankly into the fire, his face wearing an expression of abject despair.
As Hugh read the paragraph indicated, he uttered an imprecation under his breath, and savagely flung the paper from him. Presently he placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, exclaiming in a sad, sympathetic, voice:
“Jack, forgive me! I have judged you unjustly, for before my marriage I was jealous of you, and from the day I found Valérie here in your studio I confess I distrusted; now, however, I find you are my companion in misfortune—that you have also been duped by her. I clearly understand your inability to warn me by relating the terrible story I have just heard from your lips; I know you were powerless to prevent me falling into her cunningly-baited trap. The discovery of her infamy and exposure of her real character is, indeed, a cruel shock to me. Nevertheless, why should our friendship be any the less sincere? Come, let’s shake hands.”
“No, Hugh,” he replied despondently, shaking his head. “I’m unworthy to grasp the hand of any honest man.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a murderer.”
“M’sieur Jack does not speak the truth,” interrupted a shrill, musical voice in French.
Both men started and turned in astonishment. Standing in the deep shadow at the opposite end of the studio was a tall female form, which had apparently been concealed behind a large canvas fixed upon an easel. She had been admitted by Mrs O’Shea, and her presence had remained unnoticed by the men, so engrossed had they been in their conversation.
They glanced at one another apprehensively, and as she advanced the artist sprang to his feet in indignation and alarm.