He wiped all the thoughts away, and showed to Vassili a face that
was as composed and impertinent as usual.
"You said 'her--eh--husband,'" he observed. "Why? Why did you add that
little 'eh,' my friend?"
Vassili rose and walked to the door that led through into his bedroom
from the salon in which they were sitting. It was possible to enter the
bedroom from another door and overhear any conversation that might be
passing in the sitting-room. The investigation was apparently
satisfactory, for the Russian came back. But he did not sit down.
Instead, he stood leaning against the tall china stove.
"Needless to tell you," he observed, "the antecedents of the--princess."
"Quite needless."
"Married seven years ago to Charles Sydney Bamborough," promptly giving
the unnecessary information which was not wanted.
De Chauxville nodded.
"Where is Sydney Bamborough?" asked Vassili, with his mask-like smile.
"Dead," replied the other quietly.
"Prove it."
De Chauxville looked up sharply. The cigarette dropped from his fingers
to the floor. His face was yellow and drawn, with a singular tremble of
the lips, which were twisted to one side.
"Good God!" he whispered hoarsely.
There was only one thought in his mind--a sudden wild desire to rise up
and stand by Etta against the whole world. Verily we cannot tell what
love may make of us, whither it may lead us.
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