"
The detective sorrowfully shook his head.
"Unhappily I have told you the truth. Monsieur de Tremorel murdered
his wife on Wednesday night. I am a detective and I have a warrant
to arrest him."
He thought this terrible charge would overwhelm Laurence; he was
mistaken. She was thunderstruck, but she stood firm. The crime
horrified her, but it did not seem to her entirely improbable,
knowing as she did the hatred with which Hector was inspired by
Bertha.
"Well, perhaps he did," cried she, sublime in her energy and despair;
"I am his accomplice, then--arrest me."
This cry, which seemed to proceed from the most senseless passion,
amazed the old justice, but did not surprise M. Lecoq.
"No, Madame," he resumed, "you are not this man's accomplice.
Besides, the murder of his wife is the least of his crimes. Do you
know why he did not marry you? Because in concert with Bertha, he
poisoned Monsieur Sauvresy, who saved his life and was his best
friend. We have the proof of it."
This was more than poor Laurence could bear; she staggered and fell
upon a sofa. But she did not doubt the truth of what M. Lecoq said.
This terrible revelation tore away the veil which, till then, had
hidden the past from her.
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