Chapter Forty Five.
The Price of Silence
Along the broad Boulevard de la République the straight double row of gas-lamps that face the sea were already shedding their bright light, as Octave and I drove rapidly, having at last arrived at Algiers. Our toilsome journey over the sun-baked Desert from Agadez had occupied us nearly five weeks, and now, after twenty-four hours in an execrable railway carriage, we had arrived with aching bones, heads wearied, and thoroughly worn out by fatigue.
Both of us were intensely anxious; he bound to deliver his dispatch, yet fearful lest the woman he loved should discover him, and I consumed by grief and despair, but nevertheless determined at all hazards to strive for the release of Zoraida. Inquiries we made at Biskra – the point where we had first touched European civilisation – showed that the prisoners, under a strong guard, had reached there and gone on by train to Algiers, thirteen days before our arrival. I saw, therefore, there was not a moment to lose. Zoraida was in deadliest peril, and I alone remained her friend. Through those long, weary, never-ending weeks, while we had been pressing onward over the glaring, monotonous plains, my thoughts had been constantly of her, and vainly did I endeavour, hour after hour, day and night, to devise some means by which I could effect her liberty. Tortured by gloomy apprehensions of her impending doom, meditating upon the hopelessness of the situation, and utter futility of attempting her release in face of the howling demand of the French colonists for exemplary punishment, I had journeyed onward, not knowing how to act. I had returned to Algiers to be near her, to hear the evidence at her trial, to – ah! I could not bear to contemplate the horrible moment! – to witness sentence passed upon her.
Across the Place du Gouvernement our driver took us swiftly, shouting, as he cleared a way through the crowd of cosmopolitan promenaders, who, while enjoying the refreshing breeze, listened to popular operatic airs performed by the splendid Zouave band. Against the clear, starlit sky, the white dome and square minaret of the Mosque de la Pêcherie stood out in bold relief, familiar objects that recalled vivid recollections of the strange adventures that had occurred to me on the last occasion I had passed under those walls. Reflections were, however, cut short by our sudden stoppage under the clump of palms before the Hotel de la Régence, and very soon we had installed ourselves in the same rooms overlooking the Place that I had previously occupied. While Octave ordered dinner, I walked to a clothier’s a few doors away, selected some European habiliments to replace my dirty, ragged Arab garments, and on returning, purchased a copy of the Dépêche, which an Arab urchin was crying in a shrill treble. Ascending to the salle-à-manger, where my companion awaited me, I sank into a chair, and, opening my paper, glanced at its contents.
A newspaper was of interest, after being so many months cut off from one’s own world, as I had been; but almost the first heading which caught my eye was, “The Governor’s Reception To-Night;” and, having ascertained that His Excellency was giving a grand ball, I commenced reading an article headed, “The Assassins from the Desert,” which, after enumerating the long string of crimes with which Hadj Absalam, Labakan, and Zoraida were to be charged, continued its hysterical denunciation as follows: —
“Too long have the piratical Ennitra been the terror, alike of caravan, village, and advanced post. For many years, indeed, ever since the rebellion, this tribe of freebooters has held sway over the Sahara entirely unchecked, pillaging, massacring, reducing their weaker neighbours to slavery, and attacking our military posts with an audacity and daring that has caused equal surprise on both sides of the Mediterranean. The crowning incident in the startling career of this extraordinary woman – who, if report be true, possesses the beauté du diable, and has actually led the marauders on their bloody forays – was the treacherous attack upon the column of Spahis, under Deschanel, at the well of Dhaya, when only nine of the force survived the massacre, all of them being held prisoners. The subsequent desperate assault on Agadez, the fiendish slaughter there, the revolting scenes enacted within the Sultan’s palace, all are events fresh in the minds of our readers. Such horrible deeds, openly committed in territory under the rule of France, disgrace the military organisation upon which we pride ourselves, disgrace our Service des Affaires Indigènes, disgrace the annals of our colony, and cause all Europe to cry shame upon us. At length, however, the Government has tardily stirred itself; at last it has sent sufficient force in pursuit of this mysterious Queen of the Desert and her bloodthirsty horde; at last they are here, in Algiers, safe in the custody of trusty gaolers. Let justice now be done. Let no false sentiment be aroused on their behalf, merely because Zoraida is a woman. Beauty and sex have too often influenced a jury; but they must not in this case. As leader of the band, she is as guilty as this fierce old Sheikh who is pleased to style himself Sultan of the Sahara, therefore her punishment must be equally severe with his. Her case is unique, and requires exemplary sentence. If, by our present Code, she cannot be sent to the guillotine, then the people of Algeria demand the passing of a special Act. Deportation is no punishment for her many flagitious crimes; she must die.”
The waiter brought me L’Akhbar and the Moniteur, both of which contained strongly-worded articles expressing an almost identical opinion, and all showing how high the feeling ran. Indeed, ere I had been in Algiers an hour, I could plainly see what intense excitement the capture of the prisoners had created, and what eager interest was manifested in their forthcoming trial. All Europeans and colonists were loud in their denunciations of the Ennitra in general, and Zoraida in particular, but the Arabs, who formerly had experienced secret satisfaction at the discomforture of their conquerors, now exchanged glances full of meaning, smoking, stolid, silent, and unmoved. No doubt, the Senousya were holding secret meetings everywhere to discuss the situation, and perhaps, in the kahouas at night, when the doors were closed and precautions taken that no unbeliever should overhear, there were whispers of a sinister and threatening character, and the dark-faced men of Al-Islâm clutched at their knives. But, to the world, the followers of the Prophet betrayed no concern. They awaited patiently the signal of the great uprising.
Our almost silent meal concluded, Octave went out to report himself at the military headquarters, and deliver General Seignouret’s dispatch, while I ascended to my room and changed my travel-stained rags for the ready-made, ill-fitting suit I had bought. After making a hurried toilet, I stood at the window, hopeless and despondent, gazing out upon the splendid, cloudless night. From the great square below, where ghostly figures in spotless burnouses came and went, where lovers lingered under the deep shadows of the mosque, and Madame sold her journals at the little kiosque lit by a single glimmering candle, there came up a slow, dreamy waltz refrain, borne upon a breath of roses from the flower-stalls beneath the palms. The flashing light of the port swept the sea with its long shaft of white brilliance, a cool, refreshing breeze stirred the palm branches, and a fountain plashing into its marble basin, all combined to produce a tranquil scene, beautiful and entrancing.
But upon me its effect was only discord. Quickly I closed the windows to shut out the music, and looked slowly around the cheerless room. In desperation, I asked myself how I could act, but no solution of the problem came to me. I could only think of my crushing sorrow. The iron had entered my soul.
Slowly the clock in the mosque struck the hour. I counted the strokes. It was ten o’clock.
The bell aroused me. With clenched hands and quick, fevered steps I paced the room in a frenzy of despair. My mind seemed becoming unbalanced again. How true was the prophecy of my dead fellow-traveller, when he warned me that the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof was always fatal to love. I had laughed then at his fateful words, but what poignant bitterness their remembrance now brought me!
In my desperation I was seized by a madness, violent and uncontrollable, for with all my hopes shattered and scattered to the winds, only an unbearable burden of grief and woe remained to me.
Zoraida’s face was ever-present with me; the calm, beautiful countenance of the pure, honest woman, now being hounded to the scaffold by an indignant populace. I loved her with a true, fervent love; if she died, I told myself that I should no longer care to live. She was the only woman I had ever looked upon with affection, the only woman who had stirred the chords of love within me. I was devoted to her; nay, I idolised her. Surely Fate would not dash from my lips the cup of happiness now, at the very moment when I had discovered riches that would give her every luxury she could desire!
The Great White Diadem, the wonderful ornament concealed in the ragged saddle-bag that lay in the corner of the room, could avail her nothing. Its possession might in some mysterious way have secured her liberty had she been still held in bondage by Hadj Absalam. But alas! she was in a gloomy cell, guarded like a common murderess, night and day, by brutal warders, lest she should attempt to evade the executioner’s knife by self-destruction; while I, who loved her so well, though there within sight of her prison, remained powerless to help her, powerless to lift a hand to release her from the clutches of her exultant captors!
Powerless?
I halted. In my despair a thought had flashed across my mind, a suggestion, the sheer madness of which at first stunned me, but which gradually impressed itself upon me as the only means by which I could save her. A bold audacity, a firm determination, and a cool head would be required to accomplish such a master-stroke. Qualms of conscience arose within me, but I calmed them by reflecting that desperate cases demanded violent remedies. Was I strong enough mentally and bodily? I hesitated. Again Zoraida’s earnest appeal to me to save her rang in my ears; I could see her pale, tear-stained face, that had haunted me like a vision through so many weary weeks.
Her life lay in my hands. I determined to make the attempt.
Again I threw open the jalousies. The clock in the minaret showed it was half-past ten. Time was passing quickly, and I had not a second to linger. Breathlessly I gathered up the contents of my pockets that lay strewn upon the table, and, seizing my hat, descended the stairs, and quickly made my way across the square, through the crowd of idle promenaders.
Mine was a desperate mission. What its result might be I dreaded to contemplate.
Continuing up a narrow side street, where Arabs were squatting on rush mats calmly smoking and conversing in low, guttural tones, passing the façade of the cathedral, and speeding with hasty steps, I crossed another small square, and at length halted before a great Moorish doorway, guarded by sentries on either side. In answer to my summons, there appeared a French concierge in gorgeous livery, who, noticing the cut of my clothes, regarded me with a decidedly supercilious air.
“I desire to see M’sieur le Gouverneur,” I said.
“M’sieur de Largentière does not receive,” replied the man abruptly; then, as if suspecting me to be a traveller, he added, “If m’sieur wishes to view the palace, he must obtain a card from the aide-de-camp.”
“I have no desire to see the palace,” I answered. “I wish to see His Excellency himself, privately.”
“Impossible, m’sieur. He receives only by appointment,” the man said, raising his eyebrows, as with his hand still upon the handle of the great door, he prepared to close it.
“But my business admits of no delay. It is not official, but purely private. I must see him at once. Take my name to him, and say I desire to speak with him upon a matter of the greatest importance;” and, drawing a piece of paper from my pocket, I wrote my name upon it.
After examining the paper, the man reluctantly left me, gruffly telling me to take a seat. The great hall in which I stood was of magnificent proportions, with tesselated pavement and splendid palms. The palace of the representative of the Government – once the residence of Hassen Pacha – is one of the most luxurious in all Algeria, its Oriental magnificence rendering it a show-place where tourists wander, gape, and wonder. Half fearing that His Excellency would refuse me an audience, I remained impatient and excited, yet struggling desperately to preserve an outward calm. Presently the doorkeeper returned with slow, stately stride, and with apparent bad grace, said —
“M’sieur le Gouverneur, although extremely busy, has graciously consented to receive you for a few moments. Walk this way.”
Following him to the extreme end of the great hall, he led me down a long, spacious corridor, halting before a silken portière, which he drew aside, and, opening a door, invited me to enter. The apartment was half an office, half a library, with a great writing-table littered with papers and official documents; bookcases were on every side, and hanging above the carved mantelshelf was a large portrait in oils of the President of the Republic. The room was thickly carpeted and furnished strictly in European style, while on a side table stood a great bowl of flowers, the tasteful arrangement of which betrayed a woman’s superintendence.
Striding up and down, I awaited anxiously the coming of the Governor-General.
At last the handle of the door rattled, and there entered an elderly man, whose closely-cropped, iron-grey hair and pointed moustache gave him a military appearance, and whose thin, tall figure was slightly bent by age. In the lapel of his frock-coat was the button of the Legion of Honour, and as he glanced keenly at me from under his shaggy brows, his face bore a proud, haughty look. He seated himself at the table, and an ill-concealed expression of displeasure crossed his frowning features.
“I must apologise for seeking an interview at this late hour, m’sieur,” I began. “But my business is pressing.”
“My servant has already told me that,” he snapped, toying with a pen and casting another quick glance at me. “And what, pray, is the nature of this – er – business?”
“It is of a strictly private character,” I answered, hesitating, exerting all my self-possession.
“Then explain it quickly, m’sieur,” he said, turning to look at the clock. “I have guests to-night.”
“First I must tell you that I have only this evening arrived from the Desert,” I exclaimed, standing before him boldly, my hands behind my back.
“You are English,” he growled. “Tourist – eh?”
“No, I’m not a tourist,” I replied. “I know the Sahara, perhaps even better than yourself; in fact, I have just returned from Agadez.”
“From Agadez?” he exclaimed, suddenly interested. “Then, perhaps, you were with Seignouret when he captured the Sheikh of the Ennitra?”
“No, I arrived later,” I said. “But it was not to describe the situation there that I have intruded. I desire to speak to you with regard to Zoraida.”
“Zoraida? Zoraida?” he repeated, puzzled. “Ah! of course! the Arab woman taken prisoner with the other scoundrels. Well, what of her?”
“When will she be tried?”
“In two days’ time. She has already been examined, and admits all the charges against her.”
“Charges! What are the charges?” I demanded.
“Outlawry and murder,” he answered, carelessly turning over some papers.
“Then listen, M’sieur le Gouverneur,” I said anxiously. “I love her – I – ”
“Bah!” he cried in disgust, rising quickly with his hand upon a silver gong. “As I expected – an appeal!”
“Hear me!” I cried. “Before you summon your servants, I warn you that silence will alone secure your own safety!” Standing astride upon the lion’s skin spread before the fireplace, he stared at me in alarm.
“What – what do you mean?” he gasped, pale and scared.
“Seat yourself, I beg, and hear me,” I said coolly. “Have no fear; I am not an assassin.”
“Then how dare you – how dare you threaten – ”
“I threaten nothing,” I stammered, interrupting. Then firmly I added, “Be seated, and allow me to explain.”
Slowly he sank again into his chair in obedience to my command, and I told him briefly that Zoraida had saved my life, that she had become my fiancée, and that I intended to effect her liberty.
“You’re mad!” he ejaculated at last. “How can this declaration of your intentions to defeat the ends of justice interest me? I’m not governor of the gaol.”
“No. But you, M’sieur de Largentière, are Governor-General of Algeria, and in your hands lies the supreme power – the power of life and death.”
“Supreme power for what?”
“To effect her escape.”
“To connive at the liberty of a person who admits crimes that have from time to time startled the world! Bah! For months, nay, years, our troops have been hunting this band of freebooters, and now at last, when the leaders are in our hands, it is very likely, indeed, that I, of all men, should sign an order for her release!” and he laughed derisively as he twisted his moustache.
“I do not desire you to commit yourself in the eyes of your Government and the public by appending your signature to such a document. Might she not escape – vanish from Algiers, suddenly – eh?”
“Absurd!” he cried impetuously, with flashing eyes. “I must really request you to end this interview. If you have any complaint of your treatment while in Algeria, you had better lodge information with your consul. He will deal with it. I have neither desire nor intention of being bothered over your love-affairs. You request the release of the leader of a robber band. Ma foi! you will next try to bribe me with some of the stolen booty!”
“I shall not bribe you, m’sieur,” I answered defiantly, with suppressed anger, advancing to the table and bending towards him. “But you will, nevertheless, arrange that Zoraida will obtain her freedom – to-night.”
“You must be an imbecile!” he cried. Then, with a sarcastic laugh, he asked, “And how much, pray, do you offer me as a douceur?”
“I offer you,” I said plainly and distinctly. “I offer you, M’sieur de Largentière, your own liberty!”
“My own liberty!” he gasped, starting in alarm. “My own liberty? I do not understand.”
“Ah, no!” I exclaimed, with a short, harsh laugh. “You do not know me. We are strangers.”
“I – I was not aware that I was in your custody, m’sieur,” he said, crimson with indignation.
“No,” I answered, with a coolness that surprised even myself. “But your life is!”
“You – you come here – to – to demand this woman’s liberty under threats of assassination!” he gasped.
“I have a revolver here, it’s true,” I replied. “But I have no intention of committing murder, even though the life of my fiancée is at stake.”
“You – you threaten me! – you come here, and – ”
“Henri, dear!” a voice called in English. “Why, here you are! I thought you had dressed long ago. Already some of the guests have arrived!” and, turning quickly, I saw a tall, beautiful woman in a marvellous ball toilette. Her face I recognised instantly by the photographs I had seen in London shop-windows. It was Madame de Largentière!
“I – I am coming, dear – coming,” he answered hastily, in broken English.
“Then I will wait for you.”
“Excuse me, madame,” I said; “the business I am just concluding with your husband is of an official and strictly private nature.”
“Oh, of course in that case I will leave you alone,” she said, with a slight, graceful bow, and, urging the Governor to hasten, she swept out, closing the door after her.
“Well?” he asked when she had gone. “What do you mean by these strange threats? I do not know you, and I’ve nothing whatever to fear from you.”
“As time is of importance to both of us, I may as well speak plainly at once, m’sieur,” I said, folding my arms resolutely. “I require Zoraida’s release before the dawn.”
“Impossible!”
I paused. The moment had arrived when I deemed it expedient to spring the mine upon him.
“Then you will no longer be Governor-General of this colony!” I exclaimed.
“Your words are absolute nonsense. Diable! You English are always more or less insane!”
“Do you absolutely refuse to grant her liberty?”
“Most decidedly I do.”
“Then listen!” I said determinedly. “Listen, while I bring back to your recollection certain curious facts that, although concealed, are nevertheless not forgotten. You jeer at my discomforture; you would send a pure, innocent woman to the guillotine, because you fear the consequence of her escape might be your removal from office. Very well. Believe me, you will soon enough be recalled, and sink to a fitting end of ignominy and shame.”
“Dieu! Your mouth is full of insults.”
“Be silent until I have finished; then give me your decision,” I continued resolutely. “Not long ago there lived in London a nobleman who had a young and beautiful daughter. She had the misfortune to be an heiress. An aged ex-Minister, a Frenchman, met her, and coveted her gold. He proposed, and was accepted by the nobleman, but there were two barriers to their marriage: firstly, a lover to whom the heiress had already given her heart; and secondly, a cousin who had lived in Paris a long time, and, knowing its seamy side, knew also Mariette Lestrade, a whilom luminary of the Moulin Rouge, who resided in a pretty bijou villa on the edge of the Bois, under the protection of the ex-Minister. The latter, however, was not a man to be easily turned from his purpose, for, strangely enough, the heiress’s cousin was found murdered in his chambers in St. James’s Street, and – and the alleged murderer – ”
“The murderer escaped!” he declared involuntarily, for he had grown pale, and was glaring at me with transfixed, wide-open eyes.
“Yes, quite true, he did escape. He escaped to marry and secure the fortune of the heiress, and —to become Governor-General of Algeria!”
“What – what do you allege?” he gasped, jumping to his feet, his face livid. “Do you impute that I – I committed the murder?”
For a moment I regarded him steadily. Under my gaze he flinched, and his hands trembled as if palsied.
“I impute nothing,” I answered quietly. “I have already in my possession absolute proof of the identity of the murderer.”
“Proof?” he gasped. “What – what do you mean?”
With his eyes fixed upon me, his thin lips quivered as the startling truth dawned suddenly upon him.
“If you desire me to explain, I will,” I said. “Violet Hanbury’s lover, a compatriot of yours, is believed to have committed the crime.”
“It was proved,” he declared quickly. “The knife with which the victim was struck was his, and upon the floor was found a gold pencil-case, with his name engraved upon it; besides, he was seen there by the valet. The police have searched for him everywhere, but he has disappeared.”
“I now appear in his stead to disprove the terrible charge against him – to bring the assassin to justice.”
“If you can,” he said, assuming an air of haughty insolence. “Believe me, m’sieur, I shall have but little difficulty.”
“And the proof! Of what, pray, does it consist?”
“It is something, the existence of which you little dream.”
“Oh!” he cried. “This is infamous!”
“You seek an explanation, therefore I will conceal nothing. When you are before a criminal court, which will be at a date not far distant, M’sieur de Largentière, you will have to explain why the murdered man called on you at Long’s Hotel in Bond Street, in the afternoon of the day of the murder.”
“He did not call.”
“The Court will decide that.”
“Bah! – do your worst. I – I am Governor-General of Algeria, and you – you are an unknown alien.”
“True, you are on French soil, but there is such a thing as extradition. In a week I shall be in London, and then – ”
“What then?” he asked, vainly endeavouring to remain calm.
“I shall place the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard in possession of such facts that your extradition will be immediately demanded.”
“You talk nonsense,” he cried impatiently. “Let us end this interview. I – I am really too busy to listen to such empty threats and idle boasts.”
“My only boast is that I shall be the means of bringing an assassin to justice,” I exclaimed quickly.
“I have not the slightest fear of the consequences of your ridiculous story,” he answered, with a sneer. “You are at liberty to act as you think proper. As for this remarkable evidence which you assert is in your possession, well – I do not know its nature, neither do I care.”
“Perhaps it will be as well if you are acquainted with its nature,” I said. “You declare that Fothergill did not call on you at Long’s on that day?”
“Most decidedly I do. I had not seen him for quite a week prior to the tragedy.”
“Then would it surprise you very much to know that, an hour after calling on you in Bond Street, he wrote to the man who is now suspected of the crime, telling him the details of that interview – ”
“The details?” he echoed, amazed.
“Yes, the details,” I repeated. “They were given very minutely regarding Mariette Lestrade and her relations with you, your efforts to preserve your secret, and your threats of violence should he divulge anything to prejudice you in the eyes of Lord Isleworth.”
“Absurd. No such letter was ever written.”
“It was,” I replied, and drawing slowly from my pocket a piece of folded paper, I added, “Its original still exists, and I have a copy here.”
“The – the dead man – wrote it?” he gasped, turning ashen pale.
“Yes. It will prove interesting reading at the trial. Glance at it for yourself.”
Taking the sheet of paper, he held it to the lamp with trembling fingers. As he eagerly devoured its contents, his eyes seemed starting from his head, so wildly did he glare at it. For several moments he stood, supporting himself by the back of his chair.
“A denunciation from the grave,” I said. “It makes your motive plain, and shows your crime was premeditated. When your rival left England, the circumstantial evidence was strongly against him, and though innocent, he was unable to prove an alibi, but that letter will render the discovery of the murderer an easy task.”
“You are not my judge!”
“The man accused had no motives for murdering Jack Fothergill – you had.”
“Motives do not convict in France, even if they do in England.”
“But evidence of the crime does.”
“Evidence – I – I – ”
Looking steadily for a few moments into his thin face, drawn and haggard, I said at last —
“It is useless to deny your guilt, M’sieur de Largentière. The proof you have in your hand, in combination with the alibi that the man suspected will be able to prove, is quite sufficient to secure your conviction. The punishment for murder is death in my country, as in yours.”
“I – I deny it,” he said, with a strange, wild look of mingled fear and indignation. “Your so-called proof is mere waste paper. It would not be accepted in evidence.”
“I hold a different opinion. Remember the letter was posted and the envelope bears the post-mark. It was written by Fothergill himself, and bears his signature.”
“Let me see it.”
“No. It may be shown to you when you are before the judge, not until then.”
“The accusation is false and infamous!”
“Very well. If you have a perfect answer, you have nothing to fear.”
“Nothing – no, nothing!” he repeated quickly, with a hollow laugh.
“Mariette Lestrade also died mysteriously,” I said, raising my hand towards him. “Fothergill knew your terrible secret – the secret that she did not succumb to natural causes. You committed the second crime in London in order to hide the first in Paris!”
“I – I – ” he stammered, but his lips refused to utter further sound.
“I am well aware of the facts, I assure you,” I exclaimed. “First, however, let me tell you that I hesitate to place the London police in possession of them on account of the terrible shame and degradation your exposure will cause your wife and children. You who hold the highest office in this colony, who are respected and considered just, upright, and above suspicion, would be convicted of two brutal crimes. What would those who shake your hand at your reception to-night say if they knew their amiable Governor was an assassin?”
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely. “Dieu! stop! I – I cannot bear it!”
“It is not for me to heap reproach upon you. You jeered at the suggestion that I could bribe you to allow Zoraida to escape. Do you now refuse the douceur?”
“If she escaped mysteriously – what would my douceur be?”
“My silence.”
“Absolutely?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you would give me the original letter written by Fothergill?”
“No. Though I am prepared to take an oath of silence for the sake of your wife and her children, I make one stipulation, namely, that I shall keep that letter.”
“Then you will always retain that in order to blackmail me?”
“I shall never blackmail you. Cannot you see that I am driven to this course by sheer desperation? Once Zoraida is safe, you will have nothing whatever to fear from me.”
“If – if I could only bury the past completely!” he moaned, gazing wildly around the room. “If only I – I could feel safe!”
“Two courses are open. You must choose between them.”
“To-morrow.”
“No. To-night. I must have your answer now, immediately. If you refuse, I leave by to-morrow’s steamer for England.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the low ticking of the marble clock and the distant strains of a waltz from the ball-room. Into his chair the haughty Governor-General of Algeria had sunk, and, resting his elbows upon the table, had buried his thin, pale face in his hands. I had spoken the truth! His terrible secret was in my keeping. Even at that moment I hated myself for promising to shield him from justice; yet I was determined to save Zoraida, cost what it might. Uzanne was in ignorance of my intention to seek the assassin. Would he regard this action as a breach of confidence?