Chapter Twenty Seven.
Cosmopolitans.
“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. “You look as if you’ve got an acute attack of the jim-jams.”
“See!” I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves.
“Deucedly pretty woman,” declared the attaché, who was nothing if not a ladies’ man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.
The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon.
The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words,—
“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia.”