“You knew Sir Horace Fewbanks?” exclaimed Crewe.

“He was—­my lover, monsieur.”

She brought the last two words out defiantly, with a quick glance at Crewe to see how he took the avowal.  She seemed to find something reassuring in his answering glance, and she continued, in more even tones: 

“I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holymead when I came to London to visit her.  I admired Sir Horace when I saw him—­often he used to call and dine, for he was the friend of Monsieur Holymead.  But Madame told me that the great judge was what in England you call a lover of the ladies—­that he was dangerous—­so I must be careful of him.  I used to look at him when he called, and thought he was handsome in the English way, and sometimes he looked at me when he was unobserved, and smiled at me.  But Madame did not like me looking at him; she said I was foolish; she warned me to be careful.”

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders expressively.

“Of what use was Madame’s warning?  It did but make me wish to know more of this great lover of my sex.  He saw that, and made the opportunity, and made love to me.  He was so ardent, so fervid a lover that I was conquered.

“After we had been lovers I told him my secret—­that I was married.  Pierre Simon, my husband, was a bad man, and so I left him.  But Madame must not know that I was married, for that is my secret.  It does not do to tell everything—­besides, it would have distressed her.

“Monsieur, I was happy with my lover, the great judge.  He was charming.  He had that charm of manner which you English lack.  Faithful?  I do not know.  Often we were together, and often we wrote letters when to meet was impossible.  He kept my letters—­they amused him so, he said—­they were so French, so piquant, so different to English ladies’ letters.  Alas, monsieur, there had been others—­many others there must have been, for he understood my sex so well.

“One afternoon I was out for a walk looking in the great shops in Regent Street, when I felt a hand placed on my shoulder, and looking round I saw Pierre, my husband.  He was pleased at the meeting, but I was not pleased.  He took me to a cafe where we could talk.  It was what he always did talk about—­money, money, money.  He always wanted money.  He said I must find him some, and when I told him I had none he said I must find some way of getting it, or he would come to the house and expose my secret.  I walked away out of the cafe and left him there.  But I soon saw him again, and again.  He followed me and talked to me against my will.