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"I understand," he was muttering. "You
have been following this fiend of a husband of yours to protect
the museum and myself from him. Lucille, Lucille--look at me. You
are mine, not his, whether he is dead or alive. I will free you
from him, from the curse of the absinthe that has pursued you."
The fumes had cleared a great deal by this time. In the centre of
the art-gallery we found a man, a tall, black-bearded Frenchman,
crazy indeed from the curse of the green absinthe that had ruined
him. He was scarcely breathing from a deadly wound in his chest.
The hair-spring ring of the Apache pistol had exploded the
cartridge as he fell.
Spencer did not even look at him, as he carried his own burden
down to the little office of Dr. Lith.
"When a rich man marries a girl who has been earning her own
living, the newspapers always distort it," he whispered aside to
me a few minutes later. "Jameson, you're a newspaperman--I depend
on you to get the facts straight this time."
Outside, Kennedy grasped my arm.


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