“Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the authorities know that he died by your hand,” was her slow reply. “It is known that you acted as the cats’-paw—that it was you who tampered with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time—at the time when I, in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!”
“Then you love me no longer—eh, Jean?” he asked, facing her, his brows knit.
“How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?”
“Murderer!” he cried, in anger. “You must prove it! I’ll compel you to prove it, or by gad! I’ll—I’ll strangle you!”
“The facts are already proved.”
“How do you know?”
“From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband’s possession—locked up in his safe.”
“Your husband!” repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I have married, believing that you were dead.”
“And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!” he laughed, with a sneer.