It was a cold, damp night, and Helen shivered, and drew her fur cloak closer about her in the darkness.  Presently there came footsteps along the pathway, and a man came through the fog up to the door.  It was opened for him in silence, and he got in, and the carriage drove off again.

Monsieur Le Vicomte D’Arblet had a mean, cunning-looking countenance; strictly speaking, indeed, he was rather handsome, his features being decidedly well-shaped, but the evil and vindictive expression of his face made it an unpleasant one to look upon.  As he took his seat in the brougham by Helen’s side she shrank instinctively away from him.

“So, ma mie!” he said, peering down into her face with odious familiarity, “here I find you again after all this time, beautiful as ever!  It is charming to be with you again, once more.”

“Monsieur D’Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessity would have induced me to drive you home to-night,” said Helen, who was trembling violently.

“You are not polite, ma belle—­there is a charming franchise about you Englishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation.”

“You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone,” she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration.

“Le souvenir du beau passe!” murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly.  “Is that it, ma belle Helene?”

“Monsieur,” she cried, almost in tears, “pray listen to me; for pity’s sake tell me what you have done with my letters—­have you destroyed them?”

“Destroyed them!  What, those dear letters that are so precious to my heart?  Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?”

“You have kept them?” she murmured, faintly.

“Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one—­every single one of them,” he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter in his black eyes.

“Not that—­that one?” pleaded Helen, piteously.

“Yes—­that one too—­that charming and delightful letter in which you so generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection—­do you remember it?”

“Alas, only too well!” she murmured, hiding her face in her hands.

“Ah!” he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey.  “Ah! it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to rush to your side.  You remember how it was, do you not?  Your husband was lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him—­ce pauvre mari!  Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not?  And he was not what you ladies call ‘nice;’ he did drink, and he did swear, and I had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the theatre and the bal d’Opera—­do you remember?”

“Ah, for Heaven’s sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!” cried Helen, despairingly.