And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be.
He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present.
It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed—different indeed to the black gown and print apron of those Paris days.
He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English:
“Well, Jean!”
Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed. The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand.
“Yes, it’s me—Ralph Ansell, your husband!”
“You!” she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. “I—I——The papers said you were dead—that—that——”
“I know,” he laughed. “The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California.”
“Hoggan!” she echoed, looking about her in dismay.