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88 judgment may decide. You have before your eye a grim picture of a merited punishment. We may never be able to realise it. But, Mr. Hawkesley, even if we should, shall we have done what is best and kindest? It is a good sight to see a scoundrel’s head fall where it can plot crime no more, but it is a better sight to see a loving woman restored to the arms of her little children. Choose which picture you will have, and come to me again. And I swear to you that nothing shall be lost by your taking time for consideration.”

“He will not escape?”

“Nothing shall be lost.”

At this moment a signal was given that a subordinate had something to communicate, and the drawer in the wall gave M. another scrap of paper. He read it quickly.

“Stay, Mr. Hawkesley,” he said. “I have something for you. Do you know that Mrs. Lygon is now at the Northern Railway, about to depart for England?”

“It is impossible!” exclaimed Hawkesley.

“It is true—read for yourself.”

And he handed across the scrap of paper, which contained the information he had given.

“What does this mean?” said Hawkesley, bewildered.

“She is alone, you observe.”

“Alone, too.”

“That is of no consequence. And she had better return alone than in the society in which she came over to France.”

“You put a thought into my head. What if that fiend is again upon her track.”

“Be calm,” said M., laying his hand on Hawkesley’s arm. “I give you my word of honour that Ernest Adair is within four miles of the house at Versailles. He has nothing to do with her journey.”

“If he appears before her, he will kill her,” said Hawkesley.

“He will not appear before her, I tell you, and why should he attempt a new violence? Ah, the letters!”

“No, I do not mean that, I do not mean that. We have not told her who has fallen—she believes that it is her enemy.”

“Ah! And the world is now clear before her, and she rushes back to England fearlessly, the first moment that she is set free. A brave lady. You must not stop her, Mr. Hawkesley; we can do so, of course, at the first station, on pretext that we want her as a witness, but it must not be. Let her go.”

“Go—I am rejoiced that she has gone, though she might have trusted me with her intentions. But she has gone with a belief that he is dead, and when she learns the truth—”

“Yes, let us consider. That complicates her position, poor lady. And yet let her go. Mr. Hawkesley—may I ask you a question which implies the most offensive suggestion, and yet—”

“You would ask whether I believe her innocent. Yes, as God shall judge me.”

“Then let her go home.”

“I will not seek to stop her. Can she have seen her husband?”

“We will ascertain.”

He wrote some lines, despatched them, and renewed the conversation.

“Have you, Mr. Hawkesley, informed Mr. Lygon of the truth? No, I know that you have not done so personally, for you passed the night at Versailles, but you may have written.”

“I thought it better to entrust the mission to Mr. Aventayle, as I had little time to spare, and Mrs. Lygon was, of course, my first consideration.”

“You sent him up; but has he discharged the duty?”

“I go from hence to the hotel.”

“It might be well not to go without knowledge as to whether the lady has met her husband. Shall I ask you to wait?”

M. went out, and Hawkesley was left to revolve the question whether Urquhart should be avenged, or Laura should be saved from a new peril.

But, upon this occasion, he was not allowed very long to deliberate. M. came in to him with the double information that neither Mrs. Lygon nor Mr. Aventayle had seen Arthur. The former fact was stated, the second was equally clear, for Lygon had not opened the door of his room since the preceding night. It was not the business of the chief of the police to know how this had been ascertained, but his employé knew that the door in question opened outwards, and the rest of the evidence was simple enough.

“Then it will be my business to tell him,” said Hawkesley.

“Yes,” said M., “and also, if I may suggest this, to ascertain his thoughts on the subject on which we have spoken.”

“Possibly,” said Hawkesley, thoughtfully.

“He is surely, of all persons, the most interested in the decision,” said M..

“It is true. When can I see you again, M. ?” said Hawkesley, somewhat abruptly changing the immediate subject before them.

“Always. But do not hasten. I have told you that time is not of vital consequence. One thing more. You have sent the truth to England. Your friend Aventayle has telegraphed in your name.”

“Yes, I begged him to do so.”

“I mention it only because in the event of Mrs. Lygon going to the house of her sister, the facts will at once become known to her.”

“That is true,” said Hawkesley, “and it did not occur to me.”

“Why should it? You had intended to break the truth yourself to Mrs. Lygon.”

“This is most painful!” exclaimed Charles Hawkesley, walking about the room in excitement. “Why did she not remain, as she promised?”

“I must not ask the reason of your vexation.”

“Yes,” replied Hawkesley, frankly, “it is this. I have desired my wife to tell the terrible news to her sister Bertha, who is now lying ill in my house. The scene will be a most sad and agitating one, and I did not think of causing my wife the second affliction of having to make the revelation to Mrs. Lygon, who will hasten to her with the belief in which she has left Paris.”