“It seems long ago since we last met, doesn’t it?” he remarked, in a hard voice. “You left me because I was poor.”
“Not because you were poor, Ralph,” she managed to reply; “but because you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back.”
“Adolphe!” he cried in disgust. “The swine is still in prison, I suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river—the safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned, but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I’ve had a most pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself into the Seine.”
She looked at him with a strange expression.
“True; but his deeds still remain.”
“Deeds—what do you mean?”
“I mean this!” she cried, starting to her feet and facing him determinedly. “I mean that you—Ralph Ansell, my husband—killed Richard Harborne!”
His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.
He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:
“Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing? Harborne—oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in England.”