A well-known artist had been found murdered in his bed and grave
suspicion attached to his beautiful young wife.
"She deserves the Croix de Guerre, if it is proved that she did it," he
thought. "She will have saved many thousands of lives--for the present."
Folk had fixed up a party at his studio to meet her. She had been there
once or twice; but this was a final affair. She had finished her
business in Paris and would be leaving the next morning. To her
surprise, she found Phillips there. He had come over hurriedly to attend
a Socialist conference, and Leblanc, the editor of _Le Nouveau Monde_,
had brought him along.
"I took Smedley's place at the last moment," he whispered to her. "I've
never been abroad before. You don't mind, do you?"
It didn't strike her as at all odd that a leader of a political party
should ask her "if she minded" his being in Paris to attend a political
conference. He was wearing a light grey suit and a blue tie. There was
nothing about him, at that moment, suggesting that he was a leader of any
sort. He might have been just any man, but for his eyes.
Pages:
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256