The Missioner Part 50

"Now," he said, "I am prepared. Madame shall discover what it means to deceive her fond husband!"

Hurd moved in his seat uneasily. There was something ominous in the villainous curve of the man's lips--in the utter absence of any direct threats. What was it that was pa.s.sing in his mind?

"You are not thinking of any violence?" he asked. "Remember she is a proud woman, and you cannot punish her more than by simply appearing and declaring yourself."

Jean le Roi smiled.

"We shall see," he declared.

CHAPTER XIII

THE KING OF THE APACHES

Wilhelmina was resting--and looked in need of it. All the delicate colours and fluttering ribbons of her Doucet dressing-jacket could not hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the hollows under her eyes. Macheson, who came in sternly enough, felt himself moved to a troublous pity.

Nothing seemed left of the great lady--or the "poseuse"!

"You are kind," she murmured, "to come so soon. Sit down, please!"

"Is there any trouble?" he asked. "You look worried."

She laughed unnaturally.

"No wonder," she answered. "For five years I have been living more or less on the brink of a volcano. From what I have heard, I fancy that an eruption is about due."

"Tell me about it," he asked.

She pa.s.sed him a telegram. It was from Paris, and it was signed Gilbert Deyes.

"Jean le Roi was free yesterday. Left immediately for England."

Macheson looked up. He did not understand.

"And who," he asked, "is Jean le Roi?"

She looked him in the eyes.

"My husband," she told him quietly. "At least that is what I suppose the law would say that he was."

Macheson had been prepared for something surprising, but not for this.

He looked at her incredulously. He found himself aimlessly repeating her words.

"Your husband?"

"I was married five years ago in Paris," she said in a dull, emotionless tone. "No one over here knows about it, or has seen him, because he has been in prison all the time. It was I who sent him there."

"I can't believe this," he said, in a low tone. "It is too amazing."

Then a light broke in upon him and he began to understand.

"He is in England now," she said, "and I am afraid."

"Jean le Roi?" he muttered.

"King of the Apaches," she answered bitterly. "'The greatest rogue in Paris,' they said, when they sentenced him."

"Sentenced him!" he repeated, bewildered.

"He has been in prison since the day we were married," she continued.

"It was I who sent him there."

He bowed his head. He felt that it was not right to look at her. An infinite wave of tenderness swept through his whole being. He was ashamed of his past thoughts of her, of his hasty judgments. All the time she had been carrying this in her bosom. Her very pride seemed to him now magnificent. He felt suddenly like a querulous child.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked softly.

She came a little nearer to him.

"I am afraid," she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "Ever since I heard the story of his life, as it was told in court, I have been afraid. When he was taken, he swore to be revenged. For the last twenty-four hours I have felt somehow that he was near! Read this!"

She pa.s.sed him a letter. The notepaper was thick and expensive, and headed by a small coronet.

"My dearest wife," it began. "At last this miserable separation comes to an end! I am here in London, on my way to you! Prepare to throw yourself into my arms. How much too long has our happiness been deferred!

"I should have been with you before, dear Wilhelmina, but for more sordid considerations. I need money. I need money very badly. Send me, please, a thousand pounds to-morrow between three and four--or shall I come and fetch it, and you?

"As you will.

"Your devoted husband, "Jean."

He gave her back the letter gravely.

"What was your answer?" he asked.

"I sent nothing," she declared. "I did not reply. But I am afraid--horribly afraid! He is a terrible man. If we were alone, he would kill me as you or I would a fly. If only they could have proved the things at the trial which were known to be true, he would never have seen the daylight again. But even the witnesses were terrified. They dared not give evidence against him."

"Will you tell me," Macheson asked, "how it all came about? Not unless you like," he added, after a moment's hesitation. "Not if it is painful to you."

She sat down upon the couch, curling herself up at the further end of it, and building up the pillows at the further end to support her head.

Against the soft green silk, her face was like the face of a tired child. Something seemed to have gone out of her. She was no longer playing a part--not even to him--not even to herself. There was nothing left of the woman of the world. It was the child who told him her story.

"You must listen," she said, "and you may laugh at me if you like, but you must not be angry. My story is the story of a fool! Sit down, please--at the end of the couch if you don't mind! I like to have you between me and the door."

He obeyed her in silence, and she continued. She spoke like a child repeating her lesson. She held a crumpled-up lace handkerchief in her hand, and her eyes, large and intent, never left his.

"This is the story of a girl," she said, "an orphan who went abroad with a chaperon to travel in Europe and perfect her French. In Paris the chaperon fell ill, the girl hired a guide recommended by the hotel, to show her the sights.