She sat there, struggling for self-control, her streaked and grotesque countenance contorted with emotion.  Then I saw her eyes widen, and, glancing around, I saw that Rogers had dragged himself to a sitting posture, and was staring at her, his face livid.

The sight of him seemed to madden her.

“It was you!” she shrieked, and shook her clenched fist at him.  “It was you who told!  Coward!  Coward!”

But Godfrey, his face very grim, laid a heavy hand upon her arm.

“Be still!” he cried.  “He told us nothing!  He tried to shield you —­though why he should wish to do so....”

Rogers broke in with a hollow and ghastly laugh.

“It was natural enough, sir,” he said hoarsely.  “She’s my wife!”

CHAPTER XVI

PHILIP VANTINE’S CALLER

It was a sordid story that Rogers gasped out to us; and, as it concerns this tale only incidentally, I shall pass over it as briefly as may be.

Eight or ten years before, the fair Julie—­at least, she was fairer then than now!—­had come to New York to enter the employ of a family whose mistress had decided that life without a French maid was unendurable.  Rogers had met her, had been fascinated by her black eyes and red lips, had, in the end, proposed honourable marriage —­quite unnecessarily, no doubt!—­had been accepted, and for some months had led an eventful existence as the husband of the siren.  Then, one morning, he awakened to find her gone.

He had, of course, entrusted his savings to her—­that had been one condition of the marriage!—­and the savings were gone, also.  Julie, it seems, had been overcome with longing for the Paris asphalt; no doubt, too, she had found herself ennuied by the lack of romance in married life with Rogers; and she had flown back to France.  Rogers had thought of following; but, appalled at the difficulty of finding her in Paris, not knowing what he should do if he did find her, he had finally given it up, and had settled gloomily down to live upon his memories.  Some sort of affection for her had kept alive within him, and when he opened the door of Vantine’s house and found her standing on the steps, he was as wax in her hands.

Julie had listened to all this indifferently, even disdainfully, without denying anything, nor seeking to excuse herself.  Perhaps the idea that she needed excuse did not occur to her.  And when the story was finished, she was quite herself again; even a little proud, I think, of holding the centre of the stage in the role of siren.  It was almost a rejuvenescence, and there was gratitude in the gaze she turned on Rogers.

“This is all true, I suppose?” asked the veiled lady.

“All quite true, madame,” answered Julie, with a shrug.  “I was younger then and the love of excitement was too strong for me.  I am older now, and have more sense—­besides, I am no longer sought after as I was.”