The Cloven Foot

and lay for months at a friend’s house, between life and death. As soon as he was able to move about he went to Paris, and spent the remnant of his savings in hunting for his wife, without success. She had not yet made herself notorious as a dancer, you must understand, and there were no photographs of her to be seen in the shops. She was only one among many foolish creatures, painting their faces, and dancing before the foolish crowd. Kergariou came back to Auray in despair, and then went off to the North Seas again, caring very little whether he ever returned to his native place any more. He did come back, however, after an absence of more than three years. By that time Marie Pomellec had become notorious in Paris, under the name of Zaïre Chicot, and a Parisian photographer travelling through Brittany had left half a dozen of her photographs in Auray. They were to be seen at the bookseller’s shop when Jean Kergariou came home from his last voyage, and no sooner did he comprehend what had happened than he started off again for Paris, on foot this time, for the poor fellow had spent all his money during his former search for his wife. He left Auray about the middle of June, and in the second week of July I read of his death in the Moniteur Universel, which a friend sends me every week from Orleans. Whether he had found his wife or not, I never knew. No one ever heard any more about his fate than that he had reached Paris, and met his death there.”

“A melancholy end,” said John Treverton.

“Not more melancholy than that of his wife,” replied Father le Mescam, “if there was any truth in a story I read last year, copied from an English newspaper. The poor creature seems to have been murdered by the man with whom she was living⁠—possibly her husband.”

John Treverton’s heart sank. Everyone, even this unworldly old priest, looked upon the husband’s guilt as a matter of course. And if his innocence should ever be put to the proof, how was he to prove it? It was much to have made this discovery about his first wife, and to know that his second marriage had been valid. He stood possessed of Jasper Treverton’s estate without a shadow of fraud. Although guilty in intention he had been innocent in fact. But beyond this there remained that still darker peril, the possibility that he might have to stand in the dock, charged with La Chicot’s murder.

The two priests helped to discuss a second bottle of Pomard, and then took their departure, after Father le Mescam had promised to introduce Mr. Treverton to a respectable notary, who would procure for him the legal evidence of Marie Pomellec’s marriage. While this was being done at Auray, John Treverton and his companion would travel without loss of time to Paris, and there search out the details of Jean Kergariou’s death and burial.

The appointment with the notary was made for nine o’clock next morning, so eager was John Treverton to push on the business.

“Well,” gasped Sampson, when the two priests had gone, “if ever a man played patience on a monument for a long winter evening I think I am that individual. Now they’ve gone, perhaps you’ll tell me what that ridiculous old jack-in-the-box, Father le Whatshisname, has been saying to you. I never saw an old fellow gesticulate in such a frantic way. If I hadn’t been bursting with curiosity I should have rather enjoyed the performance, as a piece of dumb show.”

John Treverton told his legal adviser the gist of all he had heard from the priest.

“Didn’t I say so,” exclaimed Sampson. “Didn’t I say that it was more than likely there was a former husband in the background? It was a desperate guess, of course, and I don’t know that I quite thought it when I made the suggestion. But anything was better than relinquishing the estate, as you would have been fool enough to do, if you hadn’t had a shrewdish young man for your legal adviser. One of those tip-top firms in the City would have gone straight off to take counsel’s opinion; and, before you knew where you were, you’d have been counselled and opinioned out of your property.”

Sampson was in a state of intense exultation at a result which he considered entirely due to his own acumen. He walked up and down the room, chuckling inwardly, in a burst of self-approval. His overstrung feelings at last sought relief in some kind of refreshment. He asked John Treverton to order him a glass of hot gin and water, and he was quite indignant when he was informed that the Pavilion d’en haut could not furnish that truly British luxury.

“I dare say if I order you ‘a grog’ you will get something in the shape of hot brandy and water,” said Treverton.

“Oh, pray don’t do anything of the kind. Ask that black-eyed girl to bring a jug⁠—Oh, here she is.”

And thereupon Mr. Sampson turned himself to the pretty waiting maid, gave a loud preliminary “hem,” and thus addressed her⁠—

“Mada-moyselle, voulez vous avez le bonty de⁠—bringez⁠—ong joug⁠—ong too petty joug⁠—O boyllong, prenez vous garde que c’est too boyllong, avec une demi pint de O di vi, et ong bassing de sooker, et, pardonnez, aussi ong quiller, n’oubliez pas le quiller.” Here the girl’s vacant stare arrested him, and he saw that no ray of British light could pierce an intellect of such Gallic density. “Here Treverton,” he cried, impatiently. “You tell her. The girl’s a fool.”

John Treverton gave the order, and Mr. Sampson had the pleasure of mixing for himself a strong jorum of thoroughly English brandy and water, and went to bed happy after drinking it.

As soon as the office was open next morning, John Treverton despatched the following telegram to his wife:⁠—

“Good news for you. All particulars to follow