and, of course, had never heard of the sad history of this young, sensitive girl placed in one terrible moment between her dead brother and her demented father. He only thought of common, sordid revenge for a sin he had been practically forced to commit.
And how he had loved her!
Yes, loved—for that was in the past now. She had ceased to be a saint or a madonna; she had fallen from her pedestal so low that he could not find the way to descend and grope after the fragments of his ideal.
At his own door he was met by Anne Mie in tears.
"She has gone," murmured the young girl. "I feel as if I had murdered her."
"Gone? Who? Where?" queried Déroulède rapidly, an icy feeling of terror gripping him by the heart-strings.
"Juliette has gone," replied Anne Mie; "those awful brutes took her away."
"When?"
"Directly after you left. That man Merlin found some ashes and scraps of paper in her room"
"Ashes?"
"Yes; and a torn letter-case."
"Great God!"
"She said that they were love letters, which she had been burning for fear you should see them."
