I, by virtue of some mysterious instinct
that has hitherto always guided me aright, was the unlucky tenth. I looked
at the bishop. His eyes met mine. There was no need of spoken word
between us.
"Has Lady Carwitchet shown you her sapphire?" was his most unexpected
question. "She has? Now, Mr. Acton, on your honor as a connoisseur and a
gentleman, which of the two is the Valdez?"
"Not this one." I could say naught else.
"You were my last hope." He broke off, and dropped his face on his folded
arms with a groan that shook the table on which he rested, while I stood
dismayed at myself for having let so hasty a judgment escape me. He lifted
a ghastly countenance to me. "She vowed she would see me ruined and
disgraced. I made her my enemy by crossing some of her schemes once, and
she never forgives. She will keep her word. I shall appear before the
world as a fraudulent trustee. I can neither produce the valuable confided
to my charge nor make the loss good. I have only an incredible story to
tell," he dropped his head and groaned again. "Who will believe me?"
"I will, for one."
"Ah, you? Yes, you know her. She took my wife from me, Mr. Acton. Heaven
only knows what the hold was that she had over poor Mira. She encouraged
her to set me at defiance and eventually to leave me. She was answerable
for all the scandalous folly and extravagance of poor Mira's life in
Paris--spare me the telling of the story.
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