“No--to-night--now. What I have to say admits of no delay,” and he strode resolutely at her side, while she, her face betraying displeasure at the encounter, unwillingly went forth into the corridor. “Well?” I heard her exclaim in impatience. “And what is it you have to say to me? I thought when we parted it was not to meet again.” “You hoped so, you mean,” he answered hardly. “Come into one of these rooms where we may be alone. Someone may overhear if we remain here.” “And is it so strictly confidential, then?” “Yes,” he answered, “it is.” Then, with great reluctance and impatience, she opened a door behind them and they passed into what appeared to be her own petit-salon. Again the fire of jealousy consumed me, and without thought of the consequences of my act, I went straightway to the door and entering faced them. As I entered Ernest turned quickly, then stood rigid and amazed. “Carmela!” he gasped. “How came you here--to this place?” “How I came here matters not,” I answered in a hard tone. “It is sufficient for you to know that I have entered here to demand an explanation from you and this woman, your accomplice.” “What do you mean?” cried his companion in her broken English. “What do you mean by accomplice?” “I refer to the murder of Reginald Thorne,” I said, as quietly as I was able. “The murder of Monsieur Thorne,” repeated the woman. “And what have I to do, pray, with the death of that gentleman, whoever he may be?” Ernest glanced at me strangely, then addressing her in a firm voice said,-- “The woman who murdered him was yourself--Julie Fournereau.” I stood dumfounded. Was it possible that he intended to endeavor to fix the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the admission I had overheard? “What!” she shrieked in fierce anger, speaking in French. “You have sought me here to charge me with the murder?--to bring against me a false accusation? It is a lie! You know that I am innocent.” “That point, madame, must be decided by a judge,” he answered with marvellous coolness. “What do you mean? I don’t understand!” she exclaimed with a slight quiver in her voice which betrayed a sudden fear. “I mean that during the months which have elapsed since the murder of my friend Thorne at Nice I have been engaged in tracing the assassin--or, to put it plainly, in tracing you.” I stood there utterly astounded. If his words were true, why had he been concealed on board the Vispera in order to avoid arrest? She laughed, instantly assuming an attitude of defiance. “Bah!” she said. “You bring me here into this room to make this absurd and unfounded charge. You dare not say it before my friends. They would beat you like the hound you are.” His cheeks were pale, but there was a fierce, determined expression upon his countenance. The woman whom I had believed he loved was, it seemed, his bitterest enemy.