“This world is a very little place,” she replied in broken English, and with a winning smile. “An artist is one of the easiest men to find. Let’s see, I believe it’s five years ago since we last saw one another. On the Pont de la Concorde, if I remember aright, and on the morning you left Paris so suddenly without bidding us farewell, you—”
“How is Glanville?” interrupted the artist. “Have you met him since he forsook the Quartier Latin?”
“Forsook! Bah!” exclaimed the voluble Frenchwoman, shrugging her shoulders deprecatingly. Without answering the question, she continued: “At the time your departure caused some surprise among us, but we little dreamed that you had any connection with the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann. It was only afterwards that the reason of your flight was discovered—”
“By whom?” he asked anxiously.
“By me alone. Never fear, I shall act with circumspection,” she added, noticing his look of anxiety and alarm. “My life has been as adventurous as yours, and since that occurrence I have learnt wisdom. I have sought you for two reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Firstly, your friend here, M’sieur Trethowen, and yourself have both been the victims of Valérie Duvauchel. You drank of her love philtre, and succumbed to her beauty. You desire revenge—eh?”
Hugh bent his head in acquiescence.
“I, too, have been cruelly wronged by her. I have waited long in order to repay the debt I owe, and the hour of her retribution is now at hand.”
“What has she done to you?” asked Hugh anxiously.