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"This is the second time I have found you here, Edouard," she was
muttering in her half-delirium, still struggling. "The first time-
-that night I hid in the mummy-case, you fled when I called for
help. I have followed you every moment since last night to prevent
this. Edouard, don't, DON'T! Remember I was--I am your wife.
Listen to me. Oh, it is the absinthe that has spoiled your art and
made it worthless, not the critics. It is not Mr. Spencer who has
enticed me away, but you who drove me away, first from Paris, and
now from New York. He has been only--No! No!--" she was shrieking
now, her eyes wide open as she realised it was Spencer himself she
saw leaning over her. With a great effort she seemed to rouse
herself. "Don't stay. Run--run. Leave me. He has a bomb that may
go off at any moment. Oh--oh--it is the curse of absinthe that
pursues me. Will you not go? Vite! Vite!"
She had almost fainted and was lapsing into French, laughing and
crying alternately, telling him to go, yet clinging to him.


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