For a few seconds Jean stood motionless, staring at the lifeless body of her husband, who lay with face upturned, the evil eyes closed, the hands listless by his sides.

His head was towards the window, close to a small gilt settee, his feet towards the door.

She stood with her eyes full of horror, fixed upon the white, dead face.

In that dread moment a veritable lifetime of despair swept through her fevered brain.

The servants, with hushed, terrified voices, were searching the rooms on the ground floor. She could hear Miss Oliver speaking.

Their footsteps sounded on the big, tiled hall outside the door. What if Adolphe were captured leaving the premises?

She held her breath. All her self-possession was required now, for she also recognised Bracondale’s voice. He had returned!

Was silence judicious in those circumstances? She decided it was not. Therefore she gave vent to a loud scream—a scream which told them where she was.

In a moment they all burst into the room—Bracondale in his evening clothes, Miss Oliver in her dressing-gown, and the two footmen, who had hastily dressed, one of them without his coat.

The servants, seeing a man lying upon the carpet, halted upon the threshold, but Bracondale dashed forward to his wife, who stood with her hands to her brow in frantic terror. She was, he saw, on the verge of fainting. Therefore he took her in his arms and hastily inquired what had occurred.

“He’s dead—I believe!” gasped one of the footmen, in French.

“Jean! What has happened?” Bracondale demanded, in amazement. “Tell me, dearest.”

But she was too agitated to speak. She only clung to him and, burying her face upon his shoulder, sobbed hysterically, while Miss Oliver rushed away for a smelling-bottle.

“Who is this man?” Bracondale asked in a hard voice. “What is the matter? The servants heard a shot just after I came in. They came to me in the study—but I had heard nothing.”

She raised her wild eyes to his, and then glanced round the pretty apartment. Her gaze fell upon Ralph Ansell’s dead face, and she shuddered and shrank back. Her mouth was twitching. She was hysterical, and could say nothing.

“Tell me, Jean. What does all this mean?” asked Bracondale, very quietly, considering the circumstances.

“Ah! no dear!” she cried. “Don’t ask me—don’t ask me! I—I killed him!”

“Killed him!” echoed her husband blankly. “What do you mean? You are not yourself, dearest.”

She looked at the servants meaningly.

“Will you leave us alone?” Bracondale said, turning to them just as Miss Oliver returned with the bottle of smelling-salts.

They all left the room, including the governess, husband and wife being left with the dead man.

“Tell me, darling, what has occurred?” asked Bracondale in a soft, sympathetic voice, endeavouring to calm her.

For a long time she refused to answer. She could not bring herself to speak a lie to him, not even a white lie! The night had been so full of horror and tragedy that she was beside herself. She wondered whether it were not, after all, a horrible dream.

Yet no! It was true. Ralph Ansell was dead. He had carried his secret with him to the grave, and she was free—free! She was really Lady Bracondale, the mother of Bracondale’s child!

She had been at the point of confessing. But no. Bracondale must know nothing.

“You killed this man, Jean?” her husband was saying in a low, intense voice. “Why?”

“I—I—he attacked me, and I——”

She did not conclude her sentence.

“Why, your neck is all black and blue!” Bracondale said, noticing it for the first time.

“He tried to strangle me, then he intended to shoot me,” she said hysterically. “We struggled—and—and it—it went off!”

“But who is he?”

“How can I tell?” she asked frantically. “I came in here unexpectedly, and saw him with my pearls in his hand. I—I demanded them back, but he refused. I threatened to shout and alarm the servants, but he sprang upon me and tried to strangle me!”

Bracondale, for the first time, noticed that the morocco jewel-case stood open on the table.

“He must have got them from your bedroom!” he exclaimed; and then, his quick eye catching sight of the tinder of the burnt letter in the fender of the stove, he bent, picked it up, and remarked:

“He seems to have also burnt something. I wonder what it was?”

His lordship crossed the carpet and stood looking upon the dead face.

“Who is he? Do you know, Jean?” he inquired in a serious, intense tone.

“I—I have no idea.”

“The police will establish his identity, no doubt. I will telephone for them,” he said. “But where are the pearls now?”

“In his pocket, I expect,” she said.

Bracondale bent and hastily felt the outside of one of the dead man’s pockets. But they were not there.

He felt the other, and, discovering them, drew out the beautiful string, and replaced it in its box.

“An expert thief, I should say, from his dress,” remarked Bracondale. “He wears gloves, too—just as all modern burglars do.”

“He nearly strangled me,” Jean declared weakly.

“It was fortunate that the revolver went off during the struggle, or he might have killed you, dearest. Ah! you are a brave girl. The papers will, no doubt, be full of this!”

“Ah! no!” she implored. “Do not let us have any publicity. I—I hate to think that I have killed a man—even though he be an armed burglar.”

“But the law permits you to take life in self-defence, therefore do not trouble yourself over it. He would, no doubt, have killed you with little compunction, rather than forego carrying away his prize.”

“Yes—but——”

“No,” urged her husband kindly. “Do not let us discuss it further. Come with me to your room. I will telephone to the police in Havre, and leave the rest to them. Come, dearest, you have had a terrible experience, and you must rest quietly now—and recover.”

He linked his arms in hers tenderly, and conducted her slowly from the presence of that white, dead countenance she knew, alas! too well.

After taking her to her room and leaving her in the hands of Bates, her maid, he descended, and from the study telephoned to the Chef de la SÛretÉ at Havre.

Then, receiving a reply that three agents of police would at once be dispatched on cycles, he went upstairs to where she was seated in a big arm-chair, pale and trembling, still suffering from the shock.

It was only when they were again alone, and he took her in his strong arms, kissed her fondly upon the lips, and softly reassured her, that she could summon courage to speak.

“You do love me, Jack?” she asked with intense, eager eyes. “You do really love me? Tell me.”

“Why, of course I do, dearest,” he declared. “Why do you ask? Have you not seen that I love you?”

“I—I—yes, I know. But I thought perhaps you——”

She hesitated. She was wondering if he suspected anything. But no. She was free! Adolphe, ever sympathetic and ever faithful to her interests, had saved her. Yet, poor fellow, he was only a thief!

She swallowed the big lump that arose in her throat, and then, throwing her long, white arms wildly about her husband’s neck, she kissed him with a fierce, intense passion, bursting into tears—tears of joy.

True, she had told a white lie, but in the circumstances, could you, my reader, blame her?

THE END.

London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.