“Suppose, we admit, for a moment, that she might have been in love, as
you say, what would that prove?”
The cunning old dealer remained apparently unmoved for a time; but his
small eyes were sparkling with malicious delight and satisfaction.
“Ah! you would not talk so, if you knew Sarah Brandon’s antecedents as
well as I do. Ask my sister about her and Maxime de Brevan, and she will
tell you why I look upon that apparently trifling circumstance as so
very important.”
Mrs. Bertolle made a sign that she assented; and he, sure, henceforth,
that his sagacity had not been at fault, continued,--
“Pardon me, M. Champcey, if I insist, and especially if I do so in Miss
Henrietta’s presence; but our interest, I might almost say our safety,
requires it. Maxime de Brevan is caught, to be sure; but he is only a
vulgar criminal; and we have, as yet, neither Thomas Elgin, nor Mrs.
Brian, who are far more formidable, nor, above all, Sarah Brandon, who
is a thousand times more wicked, and more guilty, than all the rest. You
will tell me that we have ninety-nine chances out of a hundred on
our side; maybe! Only a single, slight mistake may lead us altogether
astray; and then there is an end to all our hopes, and these rascals
triumph after all!”
He was but too right. Daniel felt it; and hence he said, without
hesitating any longer, but looking stealthily at Henrietta’s face,--
“Since that is so, I will not conceal from you that the Countess Sarah
has written me a dozen letters of at least extraordinary nature.”
“You have kept them, I hope?”
“Yes; they are all in one of my trunks.”