I was
obliged to lie to you, to play a trick on you--in short--well, I can
only ask you for your sympathy. I have a kind of a forlorn notion that
you'll understand--after I've explained, as I mean to do--'
'If you refer to the pretended death of Tudor's wife--' said Hugo.
'Then you know?' Darcy cried, astounded.
'I know. I know everything, or nearly everything.'
'How?' Darcy retreated towards the piano.
'I will explain how some other time,' Hugo replied, going also to the
piano and facing his guest. 'You did magnificently that night, doctor.
Don't imagine for a moment that my feelings towards you in regard to
that disastrous evening are anything but those of admiration. And now
tell me about her--about _her_. She is well?'
Hugo put a hand on the man's shoulder, and persuaded him back to his
chair.
'She is well--I hope and believe,' answered Darcy.
'You don't see her often?'
'On the contrary, I see her every day, nearly.'
'But if she lives at Bruges and you are in Paris--'
'Bruges?'
'Yes; Place Saint-Etienne.'
Darcy thought for a second.
'So it's _you_ who have been on the track,' he murmured.
Hugo, too, became meditative in his turn.
'I wish you would tell me all that happened since--since that night,' he
said at length.
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