has committed. She caused her French lover, Silvain, to deliver to you a message that was never intended for yourself, and which must have taken you to Paris on a useless errand. The blunder was, I believe, his rather than hers, and the message was for a friend of Mr. Urquhart’s, a gentleman who has been hunting him up about some railway business.”
Lygon looked at her with a keen glance.
“It matters little, Bertha. All I want at this moment is to see Laura. Where is she?”
“She has gone into Paris—Henderson says that she told you so.”
“Where in Paris?”
“I am not to tell you.”
“Bertha, what kind of an answer is that?” said Lygon, turning white with anger.
“You may frighten me to death,” said Bertha, crying, “but I can make you no other.”
“Is it—do you dare to tell me—that my wife has given you this injunction.”
“I do not say that, but I am not to say more.”
“Bertha, beware what you are about! The woman who lends herself to help a separation of man and wife incurs an awful responsibility.”
“It will all come right,” sobbed Bertha; “but do be patient.”
“Are you mad, Bertha? Patient, with a wife whom I loved better than my life, suddenly abandoning her home and her children, and hiding herself from me, as if she were criminal? I command you to disobey any orders, and tell me where my wife has gone.”
“You—you have no right to command me,” stammered Bertha.
“No,” said Lygon, more calmly. “That is true. But Robert Urquhart has a right, and he shall exert it.”
The tone of his voice was merely expressive of determination, but Bertha’s conscience read menace in it, and she suddenly sprang to his side, and fell on her knees.
“No, no, Arthur. For God’s sake, spare me. He will kill me.”
“What can you mean?” replied Arthur Lygon, astonished.
“Nay, I know what you mean,” said Bertha, clutching at his arm. “You came here prepared to use your power.”
“My power,” repeated Lygon, in sincere bewilderment.
“You told me that you knew all,” said Bertha, agitated. “But I implore you, Arthur, spare me.”
Lygon’s mind was too painfully filled with his own trouble to comprehend hers for the moment. But as her meaning dawned upon him, he raised her from the ground, and said—there was both indignation and kindness in his voice—
“I am ashamed to understand you, Bertha. More ashamed that you should be able to think such a thought of me.”
“You do not mean to reveal to Mr. Urquhart—”
“Silence, Bertha, for very shame! What have I done to deserve such a question? Why, have I not found my only comfort in believing that Laura has foolishly come over here in order to serve you in some mysterious way, and what other belief could make me forgive her wild step? I wish to know nothing but where I can find her. Tell me that.”
“If I refuse, you will call on Robert to compel me?”
“You will not refuse.”
“Indeed I must.”
“And your reason for refusing?” said Lygon, trembling with passion.
“That I must not say.”
“Bertha, I will have an answer, even if I am driven to demand it through your husband. I will ask him for nothing but that simple answer. It will be your own act if he, in obtaining it for me, asks why Laura has come here.”
“She did not come on my affairs,” said Bertha, in an undertone.
“What!” cried Lygon, fiercely. “Nay, you are not speaking truthfully,” he added, in a gentler voice.
“You have a right to insult me,” said Mrs. Urquhart, piteously.
“Neither right nor wish,” was his reply, “but you must not play with my feelings. Let me hear the truth from you.”
“So you do. It is not on my business that Laura has come over, but on her own. I swear it to you.”
“Be it what it may,” said Arthur, “I am upon her traces, and I must find her. There is no time for soft language, Bertha. I must know where she is, and I once more demand it of you.”
“You will compel me to speak,” gasped poor Bertha, terrified. “There is no kindness in your voice now”
“Nor in my heart, nor will there be until I am satisfied.”
“He will kill me,” muttered Bertha.
“What is this madness?” he replied, angrily. “You are only asked to give up a secret that you have no right to keep. Five words between us and we part for years. Tell me what I ask—but beware of deceiving me again.”
“Again?” said Bertha, looking up at him with tearful eyes.
“You are talking to gain time,” said he, impetuously. “Do you think I believe that your adroit servant made a blunder in the message? Now, the truth.”
“Laura is on her way back to England.”
“To her home?”
“I do not know.”
“Am I to believe this?” said he.
“Shall I swear it to you?”
“No,” said Arthur, with a certain cynicism of tone which struck on the heart of Bertha.
“I understand you,” she said. “You think that—that an oath would have no terror for me. But you are wrong, and I am telling you the truth now. Laura is returning to England. You cannot follow her to-night, for the last train has left. Look at the paper for yourself.”
“Mrs. Urquhart,” said he, with a strong effort suppressing all manifestation of feeling, “I must hear more from you. I have a right to ask more, and whether that be so or not, I do ask more. My own heart furnishes me with excuse for aught
