Alone, Jean, standing at the window, gazed idly at the newspaper, the date of which was a Monday in the previous October.
It was strictly against the rules of the Order to read any newspaper, but as she turned it over, a column headed “Paris Day by Day” caught her eye. The temptation proved too much, and she scanned it down as she had been in the habit of scanning the paper each evening in the days when she had lived at home.
Suddenly a paragraph caught her eye. Her mouth stood open, her eyes started from their sockets as she read. Then she held her breath, placing her left hand to her breast as though to stay the beating of her heart.
Her countenance was blanched to the lips. The words she read were as follows:
“The daring exploits of the notorious criminal, Ansell, alias ‘The American,’ and Carlier, alias ‘The Eel,’ are at an end. Yesterday, in Paris, Carlier was sentenced to seven years’ hard labour, and Ansell, it will be remembered, was shot by the police while swimming the Seine, but his body was never recovered.”
“Dead!” she gasped, white as death. “Shot down by the police—my husband!”
She staggered, clutching at the small deal work-table for support, or she would have fallen.
“And Adolphe has been sent to prison for seven years!” she went on, speaking to herself in a low mechanical tone. “Was it for the crime committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to my appeal!” she cried in agony. “But he is dead—dead! Shot by the police—shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!”
The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her.
She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open window, her eyes staring straight before her—silent, motionless, aghast.