Then, receiving a reply that three agents of police would at once be dispatched on cycles, he went upstairs to where she was seated in a big arm-chair, pale and trembling, still suffering from the shock.
It was only when they were again alone, and he took her in his strong arms, kissed her fondly upon the lips, and softly reassured her, that she could summon courage to speak.
“You do love me, Jack?” she asked with intense, eager eyes. “You do really love me? Tell me.”
“Why, of course I do, dearest,” he declared. “Why do you ask? Have you not seen that I love you?”
“I—I—yes, I know. But I thought perhaps you——”
She hesitated. She was wondering if he suspected anything. But no. She was free! Adolphe, ever sympathetic and ever faithful to her interests, had saved her. Yet, poor fellow, he was only a thief!
She swallowed the big lump that arose in her throat, and then, throwing her long, white arms wildly about her husband’s neck, she kissed him with a fierce, intense passion, bursting into tears—tears of joy.
True, she had told a white lie, but in the circumstances, could you, my reader, blame her?
THE END.
London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.