The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strange letters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother’s papers. A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, in an endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but each time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her annoyance.
Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton, he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his lips he regretted.
“Valérie,” he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her eyes, “I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted with my brother?”
The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, her delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.
“What do you mean?” she gasped.
“I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow.”
“Murdered!” she cried hoarsely. “Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?”
“Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident.”
“Dieu!” she ejaculated, with a shudder. “I knew he was dead, but I was told he died of fever,” she said in a harsh, low voice.
“Then you knew him?”