“Yes; you have a right to know,” he rejoined dully. “Twelve years ago I studied art in Paris. There I met a girl, who, from the first day I knew her, exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Her name was Ninette Douste, her father being Scotch, her mother French, and although so young she was already a widow, her husband having been lost at sea. Ninette was an artist’s model in the daytime, and a dancer in the evening; and although of doubtful reputation, was always anxious to impress upon me the fact that her father was a gentleman. She was fairly well-educated herself, but erratic and unprincipled in the extreme. All the money she earned went to back horses; it seemed quite unnatural for such a young girl to be so infatuated with racing. She laughed at me when I remonstrated with her about it, and called me a prude. Well, Ninette and I eventually got engaged, although, being as variable and capricious as the wind, she broke off the engagement about two or three times a week. I don’t think she ever loved me--she always treated me with good-humoured contempt; but I was a young fool, and she had me completely under her spell. We were married, without the knowledge of my parents, at the English Consulate in Paris, and intended going to Montmorency for our honeymoon. On the afternoon of the wedding, however, I received a telegram announcing the death of my mother, which necessitated my going home immediately; for my step-father, Bernie Franks, was away in South Africa. I left Ninette in Paris until--after the funeral--I could settle our future plans. When I returned, she had vanished, and I have never seen her from that day to this.” Lady Marjorie uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Did you not make inquiries?” she asked eagerly. “Yes, I made full inquiries, but in vain, and to be candid, I was not dissatisfied with the result. When I returned to England, and mixed among my friends again, I saw how foolish I had been to imagine I could be happy with a woman of Ninette’s calibre: the scales seemed to suddenly fall from my eyes. Then the responsibility of Celia’s up-bringing devolved upon my shoulders; and I was secretly glad to think that she would be spared the undesirable companionship of my wife. Celia is still unaware of my marriage.” “And did you never hear anything of your--your wife?”