The car was now slowing on the sharp decline leading to the shore, and
Jacques de Wissant got up and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Stop here," he said. "You needn't drive down to the Châlet. I want you
to turn and wait for me at the Pavillon de Wissant. Ask my servants to
give you some luncheon. I may be half an hour or more, but I want to get
back to Falaise as soon as I can." The Châlet des Dunes had been well named. It stood enclosed in rough
palings in a sandy wilderness. An attempt had been made to turn the
immediate surroundings of the villa into the semblance of a garden;
there were wind-blown flowers set in sandy flower-beds, and coarse,
luxuriant creepers flung their long, green ropes about the wooden
verandah. In front, stretching out into the sea, was a stone pier, built
by Jacques' father many a year ago. The Châlet looked singularly quiet and deserted, for all the shutters
had been closed in order to shut out the midday heat. Jacques de Wissant became vaguely uneasy. He reconsidered his plan of
action. If the two sisters were alone together--as he supposed them to
be--he would go in and quietly tell them of the accident. It would be
making altogether too much of the matter to send for Claire to come out
to him; she might very properly resent it. For the matter of that, it
was quite possible that Madeleine Baudoin had some little sentiment for
Dupré. That would explain so much--the officer's constant presence at
the Châlet des Dunes added to his absence from the Pavillon. It was odd
he had never thought of the possibility before. But this new idea made Jacques grow more and more uneasy at the thought
of the task which now lay before him. With slow, hesitating steps he
walked up to the little front door of the Châlet. He pulled the rusty bell-handle. How absurd to have ironwork in such a
place! There followed what seemed to him a very long pause. He rang again. There came the sound of light, swift steps; he could hear them in spite
of the rhythmical surge of the sea; and then the door was opened by his
sister-in-law, Madame Baudoin, herself. In the midst of his own agitation and unease, Jacques de Wissant saw
that there was a look of embarrassment on the face which Madeleine tried
to make amiably welcoming. "Jacques?" she exclaimed. "Forgive me for having made you ring twice! I
have sent the servants into Falaise to purchase a railway time-table. Claire will doubtless have told you that I am starting for Italy
to-night. Our poor Marie-Anne is worse; and I feel that it is my duty
to go to her." She did not step aside to allow him to come in. In fact, doubtless
without meaning to do so, she was actually blocking up the door. No, Claire had not told Jacques that Marie-Anne was worse. That of
course was why she had looked so unhappy this morning. He felt hurt and
angered by his wife's reserve. "I am sure you will agree, Madeleine," he said stiffly--he was not sorry
to gain a little time--"that it would not be wise for Claire to
accompany you to Italy. After all, she is still quite a young woman, and
poor Marie-Anne's disease is most infectious. I have ascertained, too,
that there is a regular epidemic raging in Mantua." Madeleine nodded. Then she turned, with an uneasy side-look at her
brother-in-law, and began leading the way down the short passage. The
door of the dining-room was open; Jacques could not help seeing that
only one place was laid at the round table, also that Madeleine had just
finished her luncheon. "Isn't Claire here?" he asked, surprised. "She said she was going to
lunch with you to-day. Hasn't she been here this morning?" "No--I mean yes." Madeleine spoke confusedly. "She did not stay to
lunch. She was only here for a very little while." "But has she gone home again?" "Well--she may be home by now; I really don't know"--Madeleine was
opening the door of the little drawing-room. It was an ugly, common-looking room; the walls were hung with Turkey
red, and ornamented with cheap coloured prints. There were cane and
basket chairs which Madame Baudoin had striven to make comfortable with
the help of cushions and rugs. Jacques de Wissant told himself that it was odd that Claire should like
to spend so much of her time here, in the Châlet des Dunes, instead of
asking her sister to join her each morning or afternoon in her own
beautiful house on the cliff. "Forgive me," he said stiffly, "but I can't stay a moment. I really came
for Claire. You say I shall find her at home?" He held his top hat and his yellow gloves in his hand, and his
sister-in-law thought she had never seen Jacques look so plain and
unattractive, and--and tiresome as he looked to-day. Madame Baudoin had a special reason for wishing him away; but she knew
the slow, sure workings of his mind. If Jacques found that his wife had
not gone back to the Pavillon de Wissant, and that there was no news of
her there, he would almost certainly come back to the Châlet des Dunes
for further information. "No," she said reluctantly, "Claire has not gone back to the Pavillon. I
believe that she has gone into the town. She had something important
that she wished to do there." She looked so troubled, so--so uncomfortable that Jacques de Wissant
leapt to the sudden conclusion that the tidings he had been at such
pains to bring had already been brought to the Châlet des Dunes. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "then I am too late! Ill news travels fast." "Ill news?" Madeleine repeated affrightedly. "Is anything the matter? Has anything happened to one of the children? Don't keep me in suspense,
Jacques. I am not cold-blooded--like you!" "The children are all right," he said shortly. "But there has been, as
you evidently know, an accident. The submarine _Neptune_ has met with a
serious mishap. She now lies with her crew in eighteen fathoms of water
about two miles out." He spoke with cold acerbity. How childishly foolish of Madeleine to try
and deceive him! But all women of the type to which she belonged make
foolish mysteries about nothing. "The submarine _Neptune_?" As she stammered out the question which had
already been answered, there came over Madame Baudoin's face a look of
measureless terror. Twice her lips opened--and twice she closed them
again. At last she uttered a few words--words of anguished protest and revolt. "No, no," she cried, "that can't be--it's impossible!" "Command yourself!" he said sternly. "Remember what would be thought by
anyone who saw you in this state." But she went on looking at him with wild, terror-stricken eyes. "My poor
Claire!" she moaned. "My little sister Claire----"

All Jacques de Wissant's jealousy leapt into eager, quivering life. Then
he had been right after all? His wife loved Dupré. Her sister's
anguished sympathy had betrayed Claire's secret as nothing Claire
herself was ever likely to say or do could have done. "You are a good sister," he said ironically, "to take Claire's distress
so much to heart.