“An expert thief, I should say, from his dress,” remarked Bracondale. “He wears gloves, too—just as all modern burglars do.”
“He nearly strangled me,” Jean declared weakly.
“It was fortunate that the revolver went off during the struggle, or he might have killed you, dearest. Ah! you are a brave girl. The papers will, no doubt, be full of this!”
“Ah! no!” she implored. “Do not let us have any publicity. I—I hate to think that I have killed a man—even though he be an armed burglar.”
“But the law permits you to take life in self-defence, therefore do not trouble yourself over it. He would, no doubt, have killed you with little compunction, rather than forego carrying away his prize.”
“Yes—but——”
“No,” urged her husband kindly. “Do not let us discuss it further. Come with me to your room. I will telephone to the police in Havre, and leave the rest to them. Come, dearest, you have had a terrible experience, and you must rest quietly now—and recover.”
He linked his arms in hers tenderly, and conducted her slowly from the presence of that white, dead countenance she knew, alas! too well.
After taking her to her room and leaving her in the hands of Bates, her maid, he descended, and from the study telephoned to the Chef de la Sûreté at Havre.