“I’m glad to see you,” remarked Dick, for the want of something better to say. “I thought you would be.” “I did not, however, expect to see you in America,” remarked Kidd. “No?” “You seemed so wrapped up in Paris I did not suppose you would ever leave it.” “I came to New York to pay a visit and for a change of scene.” “Have you friends here?” “Are you not my friend?” “Certainly.” Kidd had never uttered a greater lie. “You see, then, I have at least one friend,” laughed Jacquet. “You did not cross the ocean to visit me, surely?” “Who knows?” “How are all my friends in Paris?” “Quite well; and they will be delighted when I go back to learn that I have met you.” Every moment Kidd thought that the Frenchman was about to spring at him. Jacquet continued to wear that imperturbable smile. “I shall be delighted to show you around,” said Dick. “How is Aimee?” “Who do you mean?” “My wife.” “How should I know? Is she not well?” remarked Kidd. The latter felt that a crisis was coming. He looked toward the door longingly. Had he sprung toward it Pierre could easily intercept him. “Villain!” hissed Jacquet, and now the smile disappeared; “you stole my wife from me!” Kidd laughed. The wretch’s laugh was unreal. “I have never seen your wife since I left your cabaret; some one has been imposing upon you, my dear Jacquet.” “Aimee left a letter behind saying she had gone away with you, and friends of mine saw you together at Havre.” “A lie!” “It is truth. I came across the ocean to see you, Monsieur Kidd.” “Pierre, I will be candid with you,” remarked Dick. “Well?” “Your wife did come to America on the same vessel as I did.” The Frenchman’s eyes blazed with passion and he compressed his lips. “But,” continued Kidd, “I swear to you it was not a case of elopement. I did not even know your wife contemplated coming to this country until I met her on shipboard.” “That is a nice tale.” “It is a true one.” “How can you prove it?” “By your wife.” “I have no wife.” Jacquet’s speech contained more truth than he thought. Aimee Jacquet’s remains had become food for the fishes long before. “You have a wife.” “I had one; she disgraced me, and is now forever dead to me.” “She has not disgraced you.” “No?” “She is now in Philadelphia.” “Do you know her address?” “Yes; I have forgotten the number, but I have it written down in a book, which is in my room. I know the name of the street is Callow Hill.” “Did she give you any reason for leaving me?” asked Pierre. “She declared she could no longer mix with the class of people who visited your cabaret,” answered Kidd. Dick began to entertain hope that Jacquet believed his story. It did seem so. “Aimee did not tell you,” remarked Pierre, “that one of her brothers is undergoing life imprisonment for murder and robbery?” “No.” “I did not know but she had confided her own family history to you.”