Her countenance was blanched to the lips. The words she read were as follows: "The daring exploits of the notorious criminal, Ansell, alias 'The American,' and Carlier, alias 'The Eel,' are at an end. Yesterday, in Paris, Carlier was sentenced to seven years' hard labour, and Ansell, it will be remembered, was shot by the police while swimming the Seine, but his body was never recovered." "Dead!" she gasped, white as death. "Shot down by the police--_my husband!_" She staggered, clutching at the small deal work-table for support, or she would have fallen. "And Adolphe has been sent to prison for seven years!" she went on, speaking to herself in a low mechanical tone. "Was it for the crime committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to my appeal!" she cried in agony. "But he is dead--dead! Shot by the police--shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!" The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her. She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open window, her eyes staring straight before her--silent, motionless, aghast. Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly unconscious of her presence. "You are unwell, Jean," she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the daughter of a well-known Paris banker. "Tell me, dear, what ails you?" Jean started, and stared at her in amazement. "I--I--oh, there is nothing," she faltered. "I don't feel very well--that's all." The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white, nerveless fingers. In Jean's face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those few moments of her absence. "Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?" she asked her friend, to whom she was so much attached. "Nothing, thanks," was her reply, with a great effort. "I shall be quite well soon, I hope." Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the girl's shoulder tenderly, said: "You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your secret? Why not confide in me?" "Secret!" she echoed. "It is no secret!" "Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?" Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of a notorious thief--a man who had been shot like a dog by the police? No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And none should now know. "Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare," she laughed, well feigning amusement at the situation. "I am quite well now. Quite well, I assure you."