"You!" she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. "I--I----The papers said you were dead--that--that----" "I know," he laughed. "The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California." "Hoggan!" she echoed, looking about her in dismay. "Yes--and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean." She was silent. What could she say? Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her in all its evil hideousness--the past which she had put behind her for ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness. And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale! Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her! She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes. "Well--speak! Tell me who and what you are." The word "what" cut deeply into her. He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard, remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph. "It seems long ago since we last met, doesn't it?" he remarked, in a hard voice. "You left me because I was poor." "Not because you were poor, Ralph," she managed to reply; "but because you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back." "Adolphe!" he cried in disgust. "The swine is still in prison, I suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river--the safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned, but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I've had a most pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself into the Seine." She looked at him with a strange expression. "True; but his deeds still remain." "Deeds--what do you mean?" "I mean this!" she cried, starting to her feet and facing him determinedly. "I mean that you--Ralph Ansell, my husband--killed Richard Harborne!" His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect. He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern: "Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing? Harborne--oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in England." "Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the authorities know that he died by your hand," was her slow reply. "It is known that you acted as the cats'-paw--that it was you who tampered with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time--at the time when I, in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!" "Then you love me no longer--eh, Jean?" he asked, facing her, his brows knit. "How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?" "Murderer!" he cried, in anger. "You must prove it! I'll compel you to prove it, or by gad! I'll--I'll strangle you!" "The facts are already proved." "How do you know?"