Let us draw a veil over the horrors and sorrows of that night. It is enough to say that the distracted husband, when he had recovered from the first paralysing shock of the spectacle, recognised without hesitation in the distorted and disfigured mass the remains of his beloved wife. But, indeed, there was no room for doubt. The form and complexion were the same, and the bracelets with their inscription placed the identity beyond question. Not without difficulty did Sutherland and the police officials persuade Forster to leave the corpse’s side. He would fain have remained by it, watching and praying, till daybreak; but at last they prevailed, and Sutherland helped him home. His grief was, indeed, piteous to behold. After the first wild ebullition, he scarcely wept; his face was like a stone, set in horror and despair; only from to time he uttered a wild, heart-rending moan, and shivered through all his frame like a man struck by ague. So he was led home to his lonely house, to the care of his sister, who was stirred to the depths for his sake, and watched him with infinite tenderness.

Early the next morning Sutherland called, and Miss Forster rejoiced to see him and accepted with eagerness his offer of personal assistance. All night long her brother had remained like one physically crushed and broken, always conscious and uttering intermittent cries of pain. At daybreak he would have flown down to Putney, but they restrained him almost by main force, yet with less difficulty than might have been anticipated, for his strong will seemed shattered and all his spirit clouded as by a frightful dream.

Of course, under the circumstances, a public inquest was unavoidable. At the inquest, evidence of identity was given. Forster claimed the remains as those of his wife, and a sympathetic jury returned a verdict of ‘Accidentally drowned.’ Society was for some days slightly agitated on the subject, the general impression being that the unfortunate lady, for some unexplained reason, had committed suicide. For a marvel, the so-called society journals preserved a decent silence; the fact being that Sutherland, in his capacity of self-constituted champion, had interviewed both Lagardère and Yahoo, and extracted from them, jointly and severally, a promise to abstain from any immediate allusions to the case. How he effected this object has never been disclosed; but he was, as we know, a determined man, and possibly the gentlemen perceived that publication would make a corporal chastisement inevitable. They were the more willing to forego their usual carrion as they were greatly exercising their readers at that time in speculations as to whether a certain Italian prima donna who shall be nameless was or was not the daughter of an itinerant pieman in the Seven Dials, and as to what were the precise relations between the Prince of Scotland and Mademoiselle Schwangau, the charming topical singer of the Parisian cafés chantants.

So it came to pass that the poor remains, in a sealed coffin, were taken to Queen’s Gate, and remained there until the day fixed for a quiet funeral. Most of the necessary arrangements were superintended by Sutherland, who had, as if almost by right, quietly established himself as a friend of the family. The brother and sister accepted his services gratefully, and almost without a word of explanation.

The funeral took place at Kensal Green. The only followers were Forster and his new acquaintance. At the grave the former utterly broke down, his wild tears flowing for the first time.

The two men returned to Forster’s house together.

‘I shall never forget your kindness,’ said Forster, during an interval of comparative calmness. ‘May God bless you for it! I am a broken man now, and have nothing left to live for; but while I live let us be friends.’

And he wrung the young man’s hands.

‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ replied Sutherland. ‘What I have done for you, I would, of course, do for any fellow-man in distress. But I had a deep respect, a profound sympathy, for your wife.’

‘Though, as I understand, you scarcely knew her,’ said Forster, not without a certain wistful curiosity.

‘I could not be said to know her at all. We met twice or thrice, almost as strangers, and then I saw her performances at the Parthenon.’

‘We were so happy,’ cried Forster, with a sudden access of passionate emotion; ‘and she was so good! All goodness—all goodness! God knows under what misconceptions she left my roof. But I know she had an enemy, and perhaps——’

‘Can you bear to speak of that!’ interrupted Sutherland. ‘Hitherto I have forborne from touching on the subject, but with your permission I should like to say a few words now.’

‘Do so—I will try to attend.’

‘You are aware that Mrs. Forster was acquainted with a Frenchman, named Gavrolles, now in London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know—forgive me if I pain you—the nature of her relations with him?’

‘I think I do,’ returned Forster. ‘Before my darling’s guardian died, he confided to me that, when quite a child, she had been betrayed into a mock marriage with a foreigner, who almost immediately abandoned her. I knew this when I married her. I have no doubt that this Gavrolles is the same man; that he again thrust himself in her way; that, in order to avoid him, and dreading some misunderstanding on my part, she yielded to a wild impulse and—and——’

But here Forster broke down sobbing, and hid his face in his hands. Deeply moved, Sutherland touched him gently on the shoulder, as he said:—

‘I think it has all been as you say. With regard to Mrs. Forster’s first acquaintance with this man, I can myself tell you something which will, I think, convince you of her innocence in the matter.’ Sutherland thereupon briefly recounted his first meeting with Madeline in the hotel at Fecamp, his suspicions of her companions, his offers of assistance; and explained also briefly the part he had taken afterwards, when they met again in Paris—saying nothing, however, of his own temporary misconception of Madeline’s true character, but describing the manner in which, on her abandonment by her pseudo-husband, he had restored her into the hands of her guardian.

‘That is all I know,’ he said in conclusion, ‘and I think it is enough to justify you in your noble faith in Mrs. Forster’s honour. From first to last, when a mere child, she was this man’s victim, and so sure as there is a God above us, her death lies at his door.’

Trembling with agitation, Forster rose to his feet.

‘Where is he? Let me see him! Yes, you are right—he has killed her. Tell me where he is, that I may find him out, and——’

At this moment a servant entered, bearing a card. A gentleman, he said, was waiting below desirous of seeing Mr. Forster on most important business. Almost mechanically Forster took the card and glanced at it. As he read the inscription upon it, he uttered a sharp cry and turned deathly pale.

Graven on the card, in fantastic letters, with many characteristic flourishes, was the name—

M. Auguste de Gavrolles.

The first shock of surprise over, Forster glanced up and found that Sutherland’s eyes were bent inquiringly upon his. He handed him the card.

‘My wish has been answered,’ he said with ominous calmness. ‘The very man I most wished to see is here, only I had rather the meeting had taken place beneath any roof but mine;’ then turning to the servant, he added, ‘Show the person into the drawing-room, and say I will come to him.’

The servant retired............