The Woman of Mystery
‘Suppose I were to tell you, ‘ said Paul Delroze, ‘that I once stood face to face with him on French. . . .’ lisabeth looked up at him with the fond expression of a bride to whom the least word of the man she loves is a subject of wonder: ‘You have seen William II. in France?’ ‘Saw him with my own eyes; and I have never forgotten a single one of the details that marked the meeting. And yet it happened very long ago.’ He was speaking with a sudden seriousness, as though the revival of that memory had awakened the most painful thoughts in his mind. ‘Tell me about it, won’t you, Paul?’ asked lisabeth.