CHAPTER XIII.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
Mrs. Wilders's first and only idea after she left Lincoln's Inn was to
get to Paris as soon as she could. She no longer counted on much
assistance from Ledantec, nor, indeed, had she much belief in him now;
but she yet hoped he might help her to obtain revenge. Whatever it
cost her, Rupert Gascoigne must pay the penalty of thwarting her when
she seemed on the very threshold of success.
Having desired her maid to pack a few things, she hastily realised all
the money she had at command and started by the night-mail for Paris.
Paris! Like the husband she had wronged and deserted, she had not
visited the gay city for years. Not since she had thrown in her lot
with an unspeakable villain, joining and abetting him in a vile plot
against the man to whom she was bound by the strongest ties in
life--by loyalty, affection, honour, truth.
"I hate going back there," she told herself, as the Calais express
whirled her through Abbeville, Amiens, Creil. "Hate it, dread it, more
than I can say."
And this repugnance might be interpreted into some glimmering remnant
of good feeling were it not due to vague fears of impending evil
rather than to shame and remorse.
She was landed at an early hour at the hotel she resolved to
patronise: a quiet, old-fashioned house in the best part of the Rue de
Rivoli, overlooking the gardens of the Tuileries.
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