her traveling expenses.  When my father came home, and heard what had been done, he wrote at once to his agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing the address on the governess’ letter.  Before he could receive the agent’s reply the governess, arrived.  She produced the worst possible impression on his mind.  The agent’s letter, arriving a few days later, confirmed his suspicions.  Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had led a most disreputable life.  My father spoke to her privately:  he offered—­on condition of her leaving the house—­a sum of money to take her back to England.  If she refused, the alternative would be an appeal to the authorities and a public scandal.  She accepted the money, and left the house.  On her way back to England she appears to have stopped at Metz.  You will understand what sort of woman she is when I tell you that she was seen the other day in a tavern, with your handsome groom, Joseph Rigobert.”

While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory was at work.  I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of his wife’s experience in former days as governess in a German family.  A suspicion of the truth suddenly flashed across my mind.  “What was the woman’s name?” I asked.

Mr. Beldheimer’s son answered:  “Alicia Warlock.”

I had but one idea when I heard that reply—­to get back to my house without a moment’s needless delay.  It was then ten o’clock at night—­the last train to Metz had left long since.  I arranged with my young friend—­after duly informing him of the circumstances—­that I should go by the first train in the morning, instead of staying to breakfast with the other guests who slept in the house.

At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how things were going on at Maison Rouge.  Again and again the same question occurred to me, on my journey home in the early morning—­the morning of the first of March.  As the event proved, but one person in my house knew what really happened at the stables on Francis Raven’s birthday.  Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as narrator, and tell the story of the end to You—­as he told it, in times past, to his lawyer and to Me.

FOURTH (AND LAST) NARRATIVE

STATEMENT OF JOSEPH RIGOBERT:  ADDRESSED TO THE ADVOCATE WHO DEFENDED HIM AT HIS TRIAL

Respected Sir,—­On the twenty-seventh of February I was sent, on business connected with the stables at Maison Rouge, to the city of Metz.  On the public promenade I met a magnificent woman.  Complexion, blond.  Nationality, English.  We mutually admired each other; we fell into conversation. (She spoke French perfectly—­with the English accent.) I offered refreshment; my proposal was accepted.  We had a long and interesting interview—­we discovered that we were made for each other.  So far, Who is to blame?

Is it my fault that I am a handsome man—­universally agreeable as such to the fair sex?  Is it a criminal offense to be accessible to the amiable weakness of love?  I ask again, Who is to blame?  Clearly, nature.  Not the beautiful lady—­not my humble self.