"He is well. The man that was born when his wife lay before him in the
Morgue has found another woman, a good woman who loves him and--"

"And is married to her?" interrupted Gabrielle, her face taking on again
a shining whiteness. But, as though suddenly remembering something,
she laughed that strange laugh which might have come from a soul
irretrievably lost. "And is married to her?"

Blake Shorland thought of the lust of cruelty, of the wounds, and the
acids of torture. "Not yet," he said; "but the marriage is set for the
twenty-six of this month."

"How I could spoil all that!"

"Yes, you could spoil all that. But you have spoiled enough already.
Don't you think that if Luke Freeman does marry, you had better be dead
as you have been this last five years? To have spoiled one life ought to
be enough to satisfy even a woman like you."

Her eyes looked through Blake Shorland's eyes and beyond them to
something else; and then they closed. When they opened again, she said:
"It is strange that I never thought of his marrying again. And now I
want to kill her--just for the moment. That is the selfish devil in me.
Well, what is to be done, monsieur? There is the Morgue left. But then
there is no Morgue here. Ah, well, we can make one, perhaps--we can make
a Morgue, monsieur."

"Can't you see that he ought to be left the rest of his life in peace?"