sion, but each time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her annoyance.
Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton, he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his lips he regretted.
"Valérie," he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her eyes, "I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted with my brother?"
The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, her delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.
"What do you mean?" she gasped.
"I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow."
"Murdered!" she cried hoarsely. "Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?"
"Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident."
"Dieu!" she ejaculated, with a shudder. "I knew he was dead, but I was told he died of fever," she said in a harsh, low voice.
"Then you knew him?"
"No—I—we were not acquainted," she replied, endeavoring to remain calm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.
Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled. But it was only for a moment.
"Strange that you did not know him," Hugh said in a tone of distrust.
"What caused you to think that he and I were friends?" she asked, rather haughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.
