do was tell Mrs. Selden. He was tempted to wait until morning, even strove to persuade himself that it would be better for her to have her night’s sleep in peace, but he soon realized this idea was born of his distaste for the ordeal he knew he must face.
So he dismissed the chauffeur, let himself in the house and went upstairs.
He went to Madeleine’s boudoir, and tapped softly, for he knew Claudine would be there awaiting her mistress.
The maid opened the door, and stared when she saw who was there.
“I will come in for a moment, Claudine,” he said; “I have something to tell you. But first, what did your mistress wear this evening?”
“Madame went to a Bal Masque,” came the reply. “She wore a beautiful costume of an Oriental Princess.”
“Where was the ball to be?”
“Madame did not say.”
“Did she say what time she would return?”
“Only to say that she would be late, but I must sit up for her. It is not yet late.”
“No; but—Claudine, your mistress will never return—she—she is dead.”
“Monsieur! Sir! What can you mean?”
“What I say. Have a care, Claudine, do not break into noisy weeping. I have all I can bear. Listen. My wife is dead—more, we have reason to think she was killed”
“Mon Dieu! Murder!” and the girl trembled pitifully.
“Hush!” said Barham, knowing he must be stern, even cruel, if she was to be of use to him. “Now, listen—it is not for you to take the center of the stage. I have to tell Madame Selden—think what that will mean. Go at once, Claudine, awaken her, and ask her to receive me.
