The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned upon Forster a pair of eyes lit with a sickly sinister light. ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he returned blandly. ‘I am sorry if I have pained you--but in this world it is not the fortune of any one that his path should be all sunshine. Though it is much against my inclination, it is of your affairs that I must speak. Listen, monsieur. A little bird has already whispered abroad that Auguste de Gavrolles and Madame Forster were acquainted. Having learned so much, the curious are naturally anxious to hear more. They love romances. Here is one ready made, they say, but there is only one man who can tell it truly; and that man is Gavrolles. Accordingly Gavrolles is besieged. Well, he does not wish to speak, for though he has been maligned he is a man of honour and an _artiste_. He is on the horns of a dilemma. The only course for him to take would be to travel far away, but he is a poor man, and without money one can do nothing--absolutely nothing. Do you understand, monsieur?’ Forster shook his head. ‘I confess I do not.’ ‘Then I must speak more plainly. Would it not be well, if you said to me, “Monsieur Gavrolles, since I am a rich man, it shall not be for the want of a little filthy lucre that my wife’s name is unpleasantly discussed. You shall not want the means to move away.”’ He paused, and for a moment there was silence. The Frenchman’s face went very pale, his smile became even more baleful, as he saw Forster rise slowly from his seat and point to the door. ‘That is enough,’ he exclaimed; ‘leave my house. If we stood face to face beneath any other roof but mine, I’d kill you like a dog.’ ‘Monsieur, you do not understand.’ ‘Not understand! You villain, I understand too well. I know what you have done. I know what you would do. You made my wife’s life a hell; you tortured her into her grave; and now instead of feeling any pity for your victim, you come to me and ask me to pay you money to keep you from slandering her name. Leave my house, or as sure as there is a God above us I’ll have you whipped like a cur into the street!’ Forster was trembling from head to foot with rage. The Frenchman, who was still cool, turned to speak, but one look in the other’s face silenced him. He made two steps towards the door; there he paused. He felt in his pocket, drew forth a card, wrote rapidly upon it, then turned to Forster again. ‘Monsieur,’ he said quietly, ‘that is my address for three days at least. I leave it, in case you may wish to write to me.’ So saying, and with a profound bow, he took his leave. Scarcely had the door closed upon the Frenchman when Sutherland burst excitedly into the room. ‘Mr. Forster,’ he said, ‘once more will you do me a favour for your wife’s sake?’ But Forster seemed deaf to his words. He sank into his chair, murmuring, in heart-broken tones-- ‘Madeline! my poor murdered wife 1’ ‘Pray, listen to me. Send the scoundrel the money--let him have his price--conditionally!’