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Page 38
"An anonymous letter? There is nothing more vile or cowardly! Did it
concern me?"
"Yes."
"And spoke badly of me?"
"It didn't say anything good."
"I wish I had the scoundrel by the throat! You have no idea who sent
it?"
"None, dear. It was in a strange, scrawly hand, and was postmarked
Paddington."
"It is a mystery I am powerless to explain," Jack said dismally. "To
the best of my knowledge I have not an enemy in the world. I can recall
no one who would wish to do me an ill turn. And the writer lied foully
if he gave me a bad character, Madge. Where is the letter?"
"I destroyed it at once. I hated to see it, to touch it."
"I am sorry you did that. It might have contained some clew. Tell me
all, Madge. Surely, darling, you don't believe--"
"Jack, how can you think so?" She glanced up at him with a tender,
trustful, and yet half-distressed look in her eyes. "Forgive me, dear.
It is not that I doubt you, but--but I must ask you one question. You
are a free man? There is no tie that could forbid you to marry me?"
"I am a free man," Jack answered her solemnly. "Put such evil thoughts
out of your mind, my darling. By the passionate love I feel for you, by
my own honor, I swear that I have an honest man's right to make you
mine. But, as I told you before, I had a reckless past--"
"I don't want to hear about it," Madge interrupted.
No one was within sight or sound, so she put her arms about his neck and
lifted her lips to his.
"Jack, you have made me so happy," she whispered. "I will forget that
false, wicked letter. I love you, love you, dear. And I will be your
wife whenever you wish--"
Her voice broke, and he kissed a tear from her burning cheek.
"My Madge!" he said, softly. "Do you care so much for me?"
Half an hour later they parted at the Hanover Gate. As he turned his
steps homeward, the cowardly anonymous letter lay heavily on his mind.
Who could have written it, and what did it contain? He more than
suspected that it referred to his youthful marriage with Diane Merode.
When he reached the studio he found on his desk a letter bearing a
French stamp. He opened it curiously.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TEMPTER.
"Just as I suspected!" Jack exclaimed. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken.
I have spotted the thief. The queer chap who bought my water-color
sketches is the same who carried off the Rembrandt. How cleverly he
worked his little game! But there my information stops, and I doubt
if the police could make much out of it."
The letter, which he had crumpled excitedly in his hand after reading
it, was written in French; freely translated it ran as follows:
"No. 15, BOULEVARD DE COURCELLES, PARIS.
"My Dear Jack--I was rejoiced to hear from you, after so long a silence,
and it gave me sincere pleasure to look into the matter of which you
spoke. But I fear that my answers must be in the negative. It is certain
that no such individual as M. Felix Marchand lives in or near the Pare
Monceaux, where I have numerous acquaintances; nor do I find the name in
the directory of Paris. Moreover, he is unknown to the dealer, Cambon, on
the Quai Voltaire, of whom I made inquiries. So the matter rests. I am
pleased to learn of your prosperity. When shall I see you once more in
Lutetia?
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