“So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?”
“I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know.”
“That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no.” Her beautiful lithe body quivered. “Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your brain. And more than an accident.”
“I suppose,” said Derek contemptuously, “that it was this conversation that you repeated to the Comte de la Roche.”
Mirelle laughed.
“Am I a fool? Could the police do anything with a vague story like that? See—I will give you a last chance. You shall give up this Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And then, chéri , never, never will I breathe—”
“Breathe what?”
She laughed softly. “You thought no one saw you—”
“What do you mean?”
“As I say, you thought no one saw you—but I saw you, Dereek, mon ami ; I saw you coming out of the compartment of Madame your wife just before the train got into Lyons that night. And I know more than that. I know that when you came out of her compartment she was dead.”
He stared at her. Then, like a man in a dream, he turned very slowly and went out of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.