CHAPTER XVII.
BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
Love was dead. There was no gainsaying the fact. With returning consciousness the expression of hatred became so fully developed on his face that Lucille de Vigny cowered before it. His wild bloodshot eyes looked as if they were ready to start from his head, and the desperation in his entire mien made her feel that there was no length to which he would not venture. Was he about to commit another murder?
Mme. de Vigny knew naught of the previous one, or probably she would have run away in dire fear.
As it was, she was under the impression that the man she had once so loved and still cared for more than anyone else in life, had suddenly become mad.
Rising at last to his feet with an effort, he began to speak gaspingly, "You fiend, you arch-demoness, where is my child?"
She laughed, and calling up her courage tried to brave the matter out, though certainly she had never been so frightened in all her life before. Then seeing that laughter irritated him, she said:
