“And you forgot that in your escritoire there remained the stolen agreement?” I said slowly, looking straight into her pale face.
“Yes, I admit it,” she replied, in a voice almost inaudible, her dry lips moving convulsively. “So full was my mind of thoughts of you that I did not remember it until too late to return and secure it.”
“The woman who passed as Mrs Laing was not, of course, your mother?”
“She was no relation whatever. I paid her to pose as my maternal relative and keep house for me.”
“Where is she now?”
“I have no idea,” my wife answered. “She was a curious woman, and, strangely enough, she left London suddenly, on the very morning of the day of my departure.”
“And what of Beck?” I asked. “Did he know who you really were?”
“Scarcely,” she exclaimed. “Do you think he could have kept to himself the knowledge that I was a relative of the Tzar. Why, such a man would have related the fact that he knew me, and dined at our house, to every member of his club within twenty-four hours. You know, as well as I do, how he simply adores anybody with a title. It is the same with all the newly-wealthy crowd who are struggling to get into society.”
It was upon my tongue to explain to her the truth regarding the man-servant who passed as Helmholtz; nevertheless, I hesitated to do so at present because of my promise to Paul Verblioudovitch. The silence between us was protracted. She had covered her tear-stained face with her hands, and was sobbing.
Nevertheless, I was not moved with pity. Her determination to preserve her secret filled me with annoyance. I had expected her to make confession, but I plainly saw she had no intention of revealing the truth.