“My wife also fled on the same day,” I exclaimed slowly. “I haven’t seen her since.”
At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, “So I have heard.”
“Tell me,” I urged earnestly, “do you know anything of her movements? I am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair.”
With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass, raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing it upon the table, he coldly answered,—
“I know nothing of your wife’s whereabouts, m’sieur.”
“Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?” I asked, annoyed.
He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him instinctively.
“Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary manner?” I suggested. “Can you assign any motive whatever for their flight?”
“I am really not good at conundrums,” he replied indifferently. “But if you took my advice, m’sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved you.”
“How do you know that?” I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time.