WHEREIN BOTH THE REEF AND MR. RAYMOND
YIELD INFORMATION
Yvonne was looking forward to Raymond's return from Quimperlé with an
ill concealed restlessness that drew a sympathetic inquiry from her
mother.
"Are you still fretting about Madeleine?" she said.
This solicitude was not feigned; but it centered wholly in Yvonne. The
folly, or stupidity, of some pert village maid whom she had never either
seen or cared to see did not interest Mrs. Carmac in the least. Had she
voiced her real feeling in the matter she would have condemned her
daughter's lack of proportion. During half a lifetime she had dwelt
among the elect. To her it was quite immaterial whether or not
Madeleine's career was ruined. Nor was this a mere pose on her part. She
had trained herself to think that way. Yet, so sharply may deeds clash
with personal inclination, both she and Walter Carmac were noted for
their philanthropy. She strove to do good, but not by stealth. She could
lecture Rupert Fosdyke with genuine zeal; but, while seeking to reform
the victimizer, she had little pity for the victim. From her point of
view, Madeleine was one of a fixed percentage of girls who rebelled
against the social law. Of course one tried to reduce their number; but
it was almost bad form to wear one's heart out because the expected had
happened.
Yvonne, though she would not have cared to put her impressions into
words, was aware of this attitude on her mother's part, and it saddened
her inexpressibly. At such moments a seemingly impassable gulf yawned
between them. Madeleine had been her trusted associate since they were
babies together, toddling up the hill in convoy of some older girl to
the kindergarten class in the convent. She knew that her friend was
pure-minded and warm-hearted. Nothing could have shocked her so greatly
as the discovery that a man like Rupert Fosdyke should have succeeded in
so brief a time in undermining the moral structure that Brittany builds
so solidly in its women folk.
"I shall never cease fretting about her," she answered. "If by some
cruel chance Mr. Raymond's friend fails me, I am minded to ask my father
to come with me to Paris tomorrow. Madeleine will not resist me if once
we are brought face to face."
"Your father has far too much sense," said Mrs. Carmac composedly.
"Oh, please don't talk in that strain. I cannot bear it!" pleaded the
girl.
"It hurts, of course; but isn't it better to look at the facts squarely?
I am surprised that Mr. Raymond, who has more experience of life, should
have flown on a wild-goose chase to Quimperlé. It is nothing else. If
Madeleine is actually on her way to Paris, the journey is a matter of
obvious arrangement. Rupert will unquestionably meet her at the Gare St.
Lazare, and what opportunity will your deputy have then of making any
appeal to the girl herself? Rupert would simply take him by the collar
and swing him aside. You see, Yvonne, I am forty-two, and you are
twenty. We survey life from different angles."
"From different levels, at any rate," said Yvonne, closing her ears to
the cold accuracy of her mother's reasoning. "You gaze down on us simple
Pont Avenois from the altitude of New York and London, while I cannot
peer above the eaves of our little mills. I am looking now through the
low door of a desolate cottage, and I can discern a broken-hearted woman
crooning her sorrow by the embers of a dying fire. Oh, Mother, Mother,
if ever you would have me love you as a daughter, you must try and
realize that my very heartstrings are twined round my Breton friends,
that I rejoice with them and grieve with them, that I love them for
their many virtues and condone their few faults! I have never knowingly
wished evil to anyone, but if God in His mercy should preserve my dear
Madeleine from that horrid man I would not care what means His wisdom
adopted. Even though Fosdyke marries her, Madeleine will not be happy,
and I cannot think that if he meant to behave honorably he would have
tempted her to plunge her people into such distress by leaving home
clandestinely."
Mrs. Carmac could have rocked with laughter at the notion of Rupert
Fosdyke marrying Madeleine Demoret; but she curbed the impulse. Despite
her primitive simplicity, Yvonne was in an excitable mood that night,
and this affair must be allowed to settle itself without disturbing
their good relations.
"Well," she sighed, affecting an accord she did not feel, "we can only
hope now that your telegram will prove effective. Who is the person
whose aid Mr. Raymond is securing?"
"A Monsieur Duquesne."
Mrs. Carmac wrinkled her smooth forehead. "I have not heard the name,"
she said, after a pause. "But there is nothing unusual in that. Raymond
is curiously secretive. Any other man, living in a household on the
footing he occupied in the Chase and in Charles Street, would have
spoken at times of his relatives. He, for all I knew of his earlier
history, might have been born in--Saturn. I was going to say Mars; but
Mr. Raymond does not meet one's ideal of a Martian."
At that Yvonne was constrained to smile. Neither she nor the woman who
dismissed Raymond and Duquesne so flippantly could guess what sinister
influences lurked behind the association of those two men. An astrologer
would have found something ominous in that haphazard reference to the
planetary harbingers of disaster, Saturn and Mars, and, oddly enough, a
half-thought of the sort did flit through Yvonne's mind, because she
often found amusement and interest, during the mild and clear winters of
Brittany, in reading the firmament from a stellar atlas, and there was
hardly a constellation in the northern heavens she could not name at
sight.
At that moment, however, relief from a rather forced conversation came
in the shape of Captain Popple's burly form.
* * * * *
"Beg pardon, Ma'am, for intrudin' at this time," he said, when admitted,
"but I thought you'd like to hear the result of today's operations on
the reef. Atween Peridot an' a trawl, we've been doin' things."
"Is Peridot here--in Pont Aven?" interrupted Yvonne, blanching in quick
alarm.
"Yes, Miss. He kem from Concarneau this mornin', an' I've brought him up
the river on tonight's tide."
"Where is he now?"
"I'm not quite sure, Miss. He left me a couple o' minutes since. While I
was havin' a word with Jackson, Peridot went up the hill."
"Was he tired?"
Popple was undoubtedly perplexed by this sudden concern as to Peridot's
physical condition; but he answered readily enough, "Well, Miss, if he
isn't, he ought to be. We've been hard at it, high water an' low, for
fourteen hours."
Yvonne was so visibly relieved that Popple's bewilderment increased. Of
course he had heard no word of Madeleine's flight, and he could not
understand that if Peridot had gone home and to bed there was a chance
that the fisherman might leave the village again early in the morning
without being told the disastrous news, since Madame Larraidou was a
cautious old body, who would not vex her son with idle gossip.
Popple hesitated. If further details of Peridot's well-being were
needed, he was ready to vouch for the Breton's apparent good health and
complete sobriety.
Mrs. Carmac fathomed his difficulty at once.
"Go on, Captain," she smiled. "Miss Ingersoll only wanted to be assured
that Peridot was safe in his cottage. His mother was anxious about
him--that is all."
"No need, Ma'am, I assure you," said Popple earnestly. "He's one of the
best, is Peridot. For a Frenchman, I've never met his ekal. I had a sort
of notion he'd bring good luck, an' he did too. We've got your boxes!"
* * * * *
Mrs. Carmac stood up. Her pale cheeks flushed with gratification. "I am
more than pleased," she cried. "Where are they? Can they be brought here
tonight?"
"No, Ma'am; not both, that is. Like meself, I reckon, you're forgettin'
the ways of a French custom house. I've got yours, because it was open;
but the other one, which is locked, had to be left in a shed down below
there until the key is produced. I tried to tell some chap in a blue
coat and cheese-cutter cap that if poor Mr. Carmac had any cigars or
cigarettes in his cabin trunk they wouldn't be of much account after
soakin' in salt water for a matter o' ten days or thereabouts; but,
bless your heart, he wouldn't listen. Mossoo Guého, the gentleman from
Brest, tole me I'd have to bring the key in the mornin', or, more
likely, force it open; so I left it at that."
Mrs. Carmac was puzzled, and showed it. "You say my box is open. Do you
mean, that it has been smashed to pieces?" she inquired.
"It's hardly been scratched, Ma'am. You see, it was this way: When the
yacht broke in two the fore part was carried clean away by the sea. The
trawl picked up fittin's an' bits o' machinery two hundred yards from
the reef. But the after part must ha held together longer, an' the heavy
seas didn't get at it quite so fierce like. Anyhow, Peridot sort o'
nosed out where them boxes might be lyin', an' we sent the diver
down--an' sure enough there they were."
"Could the box have been wrenched open while being lifted to the
surface?"
Popple scratched his head dubiously, not because of any doubt suggested
by Mrs. Carmac's question, but on account of a problem that had bothered
him ever since the salvage was effected.
"No, Ma'am," he said, evidently weighing his words. "It received no
rough usage. It wasn't locked."
"But it was!" insisted the lady, rather emphatically. "I locked it
myself before coming on deck after we left Brest. I remember doing so
most distinctly."
"Then it's a myst'ry, Ma'am,--a real myst'ry, seein' as the lock has
been turned. The wards are full o' sand, of course; but that has nothin'
to do with their position."
"Where is the box now?"
"Outside on a handcart, Ma'am. Jackson's on guard. That's been his job
all day--just sittin' on that box. You see, Ma'am, you tole me you was
particular about it an' the other one; so I've taken care that each of
'em reaches you just as we found it."
"Will you kindly ask the hotel porters to carry the one box here now?"
"Cert'nly, Ma'am. There's on'y one thing. The contents are in a sad
mess. The sight of 'em may upset you."
"No, no. The loss of the clothing is immaterial. Please have the box
brought in."
* * * * *
Popple lost no time. Mrs. Carmac was explaining to Yvonne that the
solitary article of jewelry she valued, a necklace of graded pearls, had
been left in a locked case, itself inclosed in a locked box, when a
porter entered and dumped a rust-covered steel trunk on the floor.
Popple untied the knots of a rope that kept the lid in position.
Unquestionably, if Mrs. Carmac had turned the key in the lock on leaving
her cabin, it had been opened later, either by accident or design.
The owner dropped to her knees instantly. After an alarmed glance at an
arrangement of straps beneath the lid, she piled a number of sodden and
salt-stained articles on the floor. Soon she was gazing disconsolately
at an empty box. The jewelcase was not there. But she was more than
disturbed, she was exceedingly annoyed.
"I have been robbed!" she cried. "Someone on board the Stella possessed
a key that would open a Yale lock, a thing that called for careful
planning. I have lost twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls and
diamonds!"
"Mr. Raymond tole me the necklace alone was worth ten thousand, Ma'am,"
breathed Popple thickly.
"Mr. Raymond! How came you and he to be discussing the value of my
jewels?" She was on her feet now, glowering in anger, a woman despoiled
of her prized possessions, and ready to suspect anyone.
Popple was apologetic. He felt as if he were personally in default. "We
was talkin' one day about the salvage, Ma'am. If you remember, you
mentioned a lot o' money in notes, which ought to turn up in the trunk
at the customs shed, and it seemed sort o' nateral that Mr. Raymond an'
I should talk things over."
"Yes, yes. Of course he knew all about the notes and the rest. Don't
look at me in that stupid fashion. I am not accusing you or Mr. Raymond
of stealing my belongings. But how can one account for this wretched
business? Who could have dared to go to my cabin, when the robbery must
be discovered before we reached port that night? I locked both case and
box. Here are the keys. Celeste found them in a special pocket inside
the skirt I wore that day. My husband's keys were in his pocket too.
They were brought to me by the mayor on behalf of the police."
She was talking excitedly, almost at random, and had snatched at a
porte-monnaie to display the keys, as though the fact that they existed
and were in her keeping supplied proof positive that she could not be
mistaken.
"It's an awkward business, an' that's the solemn truth, Ma'am," wheezed
Popple. "It 'ud please me an' Jackson if you'd send for the police an'
have 'em search us an' our rooms. Not that we've got much beyond a few
bits o' linen----"
"You and Jackson--the steward!" repeated Mrs. Carmac shrilly. "Did you
know already that my jewels were gone?"
"We guessed it, Ma'am. We didn't like the look o' that there box, an'
that's a fact."
She stamped a foot angrily on the floor of polished wood. "It does not
concern you or Jackson," she cried. "I would as soon think of blaming
Mr. Raymond, who was with me in the deck saloon during all those
miserable hours----"
* * * * *
"Blaming me for what, Mrs. Carmac?" came in the secretary's harsh voice.
The door had been left open when the box was brought in, and Raymond
himself was standing there now. He had just returned from Quimperlé, and
had the semblance of a man pierced with cold, as the night had suddenly
grown chilly. His small eyes roved from Mrs. Carmac's irritated face to
Yvonne, who was still seated, and had not interfered in the
conversation. Then they dwelt on the empty trunk and the disheveled heap
of its contents.
"You've recovered some of your baggage, I see," he went on quietly. "Is
that the box containing your jewelcase?"
"It is the box that did contain it at one time," came the vexed
rejoinder.
"Do you mean that the case is not there?"
"Yes. Someone has stolen it. I care nothing about the diamonds; but the
pearls were given me by Mr. Carmac, and cannot be replaced."
"But--forgive the question--why did you say you do not blame me?"
"I blame no one, you least of any, as you are the one man who was never
near my cabin since I quitted it."
Raymond advanced farther into the room. After one sharp glance at the
flustered sailor, he gazed again at the limp collection of garments on
the floor, from which a light haze of steam was curling lazily, as the
temperature of the apartment was many degrees higher than that of the
wet and closely packed lingerie and dresses.
"This is a very serious matter," he said slowly. "Unfortunately most of
the Stella's crew have left Pont Aven."
"My men were not thieves, Mr.----" broke in Popple fiercely.
"I am not even hinting that they were," said Raymond. "I only mention
the chief obstacle in the way, of a search for the missing gems--granted
the almost incredible thing that any man on board the Stella stole them
in the belief that he could win clear with his loot before Mrs. Carmac
discovered her loss. Do you mean to send for the police?" he continued,
addressing Mrs. Carmac. "And--that reminds me--what of the money Mr.
Carmac carried in one of his trunks? Is that gone also?"
Mrs. Carmac snapped that she did not mean to trouble the police. The
sooner she was out of Pont Aven and free of its oppressive atmosphere
the better she would be pleased. Then, apparently ashamed of her
petulance, she explained the mystery of the open lock.
Raymond tried to be helpful. He frowned judicially. "Where did you
actually place the jewelcase?" he asked.
"In those straps," she said, pointing to the slings attached to the
inside of the lid.
"Then isn't it at least possible that you did not actually lock the box,
though believing you had done so? In this event the case, being heavy,
may have fallen out, and be now somewhere in the locality where the box
was found."
"No," said Popple. "The diver had his orders. He searched pertic'lar."
His tone was gruff, even hostile. He would be hard to convince that the
secretary's reference to the departed members of the yacht's company was
not meant as a slur on their character.
Raymond ignored Popple's curtness. "Still, as you yourself said,
Captain, the sea acts in a curiously uncertain way at times," he replied
blandly. "There will be no harm in making a fresh search tomorrow.
Weather permitting, I shall accompany you, if for no other reason than a
wish to see once again a place where some of us--not all,
unhappily--were so providentially rescued."
Mrs. Carmac rang for Celeste. "Take these articles, and give them to
Mademoiselle Julia for distribution among the poor women of the
village," she said. Her attitude was eloquent. The pearls were lost
irretrievably. She dismissed the subject.
"_Mais, Madame_," cried the dismayed Celeste, "much of the linen is
veritably new, and only requires washing."
"Do as I bid you. I shall never wear any of those garments again.
Captain Popple, here is the key you want. I leave you to deal with the
customs people. Will you help Celeste to remove the box? Thank you.
Well, Mr. Raymond, you have just returned from Quimperlé, I suppose? Did
you have a cold journey?"
* * * * *
Raymond took the cue, and said nothing more of the theft. When Popple
and the maid had gone he explained that during the run to Quimperlé he
decided that it would be more discreet to telephone Duquesne than send
Yvonne's telegram. He was lucky in reaching his friend without delay,
and was thus able to give him detailed instructions, including a full
description of Madeleine's appearance. Duquesne had promised to meet the
train at the Gare St. Lazare. In fact, he was so eager to serve that,
failing Madeleine's arrival at the expected hour, he would meet the next
train, and the next. In any case he would telegraph the result early in
the morning.
In a word, Raymond had acquitted himself admirably. He had forgotten
nothing, left no stone unturned. Yvonne was more than ever grateful.
Mrs. Carmac was tired, almost peevish; so the girl did not remain much
longer.
She agreed readily when Raymond asked to be allowed to see her home, and
did not demur on reaching the bridge at an unexpected request that she
should walk with him a little way down the road to the harbor.
"The hour is not so late," he said deferentially, "and I wish to lay
before you a very serious matter. I may surprise you greatly. I may even
distress you. But I do want you to believe, Miss Yvonne, that in baring
my heart to you I am not swayed by unworthy motives."
The girl was certainly astonished by this portentous opening; but the
secretary's action with regard to Madeleine had completely dissipated a
sense of restraint and dislike that she was usually aware of when in his
company. Thinking he had some news from Paris that he did not wish to
reveal in Mrs. Carmac's presence, she hastened to assure him that he
might speak with the utmost candor.
"That is good and kind of you," he said; "but it is only what I expected
to hear from your lips. But I am sure you will forgive me if I tread
warily. I have that to tell which may find you unprepared, and I think
you will thank me afterward--no matter what view you take of what I may
call an astounding revelation--if I do not blurt out what I have to say
like some frightened child. My nature is a cautious one, and I shrink
from even the semblance of inflicting pain. Such characteristics may be
commendable in their way; but they have their drawbacks in a case like
this, when a man who would willingly undergo any suffering for your sake
is forced, against the grain, to utter unpleasant truths."
* * * * *
Yvonne was more and more bewildered. She realized intuitively now that
he meant to discuss her mother's affairs, since Madeleine could not
possibly have reached Paris yet, and any tidings he might have obtained
with regard to Rupert Fosdyke's schemes hardly warranted such an
alarming preamble. So she strove to make him comprehend that he was
treading on dangerous ground.
"If you are referring, even indirectly, to Mrs. Carmac," she said
frankly, "I must warn you instantly that I cannot listen to anything
concerning her. Until she came to Pont Aven I was not even aware that
such a relative as an aunt existed. When she leaves this place--though I
shall see her often, I hope, in the future--the relations between us
will be rather those of good friends than of aunt and niece. You ought
to understand, then, Mr. Raymond, that if your confidences deal with her
I refuse to hear them."
Raymond sighed heavily. He seemed to be at a loss for words. In reality
Yvonne had said exactly what he anticipated, and he counted on a well
judged delay as calculated to increase her agitation and weaken her
defenses.
"Please don't render an ungracious task harder," he said, as though
nerving himself to a supreme effort, when Yvonne, after walking a few
paces in silence, was about to tell him that she would go no farther. "I
meant to prepare you by some vague comments that would clear the air.
But your highly strung and generous temperament will not permit any
display of what I have described as my methods of caution. Well, then,
if it must be so, let us get to the crux of the matter at once. Mrs.
Carmac is not your aunt, Miss Yvonne. She is your mother! She was your
father's lawful wife! She deserted him and you, got an American divorce,
and was married to Walter Carmac in England. I believe that the second
marriage was not a valid one. It is terrible to have to say these
things; but they are true, and it rests with you to save her from
exposure and ignominy. I beseech you to credit my good faith in this
matter. To whom can I appeal if not to you, her daughter? It is
manifestly impossible that I should go to your father. He could not help
her if he would. Her future happiness, her very means of existence, are
in your hands. Can you then reproach me if I ask you to bear with me
while I endeavor to show a way out of a situation bristling with
difficulties for all of us, alive with real danger for your own mother?"
* * * * *
In the first shock of this disclosure Yvonne was minded to rend the man
with a few quiet words of scorn and disdain, and then leave him. Twice
she essayed to break in on his measured utterances, and twice she held
back. She could not know that Raymond had forged his thunderbolt with no
slight skill. He could not hope to achieve the final effect he aimed at
by merely revealing a secret that was no secret. Close observation had
shown that the girl was well aware of the relationship she bore to Mrs.
Carmac, and, although she might be a prey to terror and dismay at
finding the knowledge in possession of a comparative stranger, she would
hardly do other than resent his interference, resent it too with a good
deal of spirit and hot indignation.
He contrived therefore to combine innuendo with fact. He had counted the
cost. He was playing a desperate game. During the next five minutes he
must have in Yvonne either a determined opponent or a subservient if
unwilling ally. There could be no half measures. If his suit was
spurned, he must attach himself forthwith to Rupert Fosdyke's fortunes.
If Yvonne wavered, or was cowed, he would strike a telling blow through
her mother. No matter how the issue tended, he was secure of a thumping
reward.
Once again the hazard of the hour seemed to be with him. Yvonne, almost
tongue-tied and wholly bewildered, could only falter brokenly, "Having
said so much, you cannot stop now. What do you mean when you say that
Mrs. Carmac is in danger?"
He almost chuckled. Things were going well, exceedingly well. She was
ready to listen. But he managed to throw an emotional vibration into his
voice. For the moment the man was a consummate actor; though indeed he
had so much at stake that no extraordinary effort was called for.
"Thank you," he said, apparently groping in a fog of doubt, and forcing
an unwilling parade of unpalatable and distressing facts. "It is
something gained to feel that you have suspended judgment. You may or
may not know already that Mrs. Carmac is your mother. I ask you to admit
nothing: only to hear and weigh my statements dispassionately. Eighteen
years ago your mother deserted you and your father in Paris. For some
reason Mrs. Ingersoll married Carmac in her maiden name two years later.
None of her associates ever guessed that the beautiful and distinguished
Stella Fordyce had been the wife of an unknown artist. Her secret was
safe with your father. It would have gone to the grave with her but for
the wreck of the yacht on a Breton reef, and the really phenomenal
chance that brought her first husband and her child to her rescue. Even
then nothing might have been revealed had not Carmac lost his life.
Really, if one were superstitious, one would see the action of
Providence in----"
"Please spare me any references of that sort," broke in Yvonne. She
could endure much; but she was not compelled to suffer this hypocritical
scoundrel's blasphemy.
Raymond started. There was a new quality in her voice. She was regaining
her self control, and at all costs he must prevent that. If he would
win, he must adopt tactics of the whirlwind order.
"Forgive me," he said. "The thought has been so constantly in my mind of
late that it came unbidden. But you leave me no choice. I must speak
plainly, almost brutally. Let Rupert Fosdyke obtain the faintest shadow
of the unquestionable facts, and he will not only drive your mother
forth a pauper, but put such a complexion on the facts that she will be
disgraced forever among her equals."
"Disgraced! Why? People are not disgraced because they obtain a divorce
according to the laws of their own country."
"No; but they are punished severely if they offend against the social
code. Mrs. Carmac's offense is against British law. She cannot deny it.
The first person who lodges an information can upset her husband's will.
Deprived of his money and its influence, what becomes of her?"
* * * * *
Yvonne stood in the road as though she had been turned to stone, and
perforce Raymond halted and faced her. There was not a strong light in
that place. Some fifty yards away shone a lamp that marked a footbridge
across the top of the harbor. Just beneath the Aven took its last plunge
as a mountain stream and mingled its sweet waters with the tides. On the
rocks, high above the river, a Calvary was silhouetted against the cold,
clear blue of a starlit sky, and it needed no highly imaginative mind to
picture the stark figure of the Christ gazing down compassionately on
one of His creatures who was disobeying His ordinances.
Not far distant was the cheerful café frequented by artists and writers
on summer evenings, where Madame Maréchale, Julia Guillou's sister,
dispensed cups of black coffee, and tiny glasses of liqueur cider, and
epigrams--each excellent in their way. In a flash the notion presented
itself to Yvonne's overburdened mind that the pleasant intimacy of those
mild revels was being banned by some malign influence which had its
living agent in the diminutive creature now confronting her. The empty
right sleeve of Raymond's overcoat added to his lop-sided appearance.
The black figure, sharply outlined against the white road and the
luminous mist rising from the river, was almost ghoul-like in its
ungainliness. She could see the Calvary. Raymond had turned his back on
it. Instantly she found in him the personification of the impenitent
thief.
But she had her wits about her now. Life was becoming too complex in its
issues that a girl should handle them alone. No matter what the outcome,
her father must take control; but before going to him she must probe
this miscreant's full intent.
"Do you imply that you are the person who may lodge an information?" she
said, with a calmness of tone that sounded bizarre in her own ears.
"No, no. That is the last thing I would think of," protested Raymond
heatedly.
"Or that you feel compelled to acquaint Rupert Fosdyke with his rights
as his uncle's heir?"
"He has no rights. His uncle has cast him off deliberately. He is an
unscrupulous roué--witness his heartless philandering with your friend
Madeleine!"
"In that event, why have you made revelations to me, which, if true,
cannot fail to be hurtful?"
"I want to become your loyal ally in shielding your mother from the
consequences of her past mistakes."
"I am almost powerless, Mr. Raymond. Mrs. Carmac will go from Pont Aven
soon. I remain with my father. What sort of alliance can you and I form
that will protect or benefit her?"
Raymond's small eyes blazed with sudden fire. She had actually helped
him to surmount the stiffest barrier. "The best and most enduring of
all," he said thickly. "Marry me! Why not? You are free. I shall be a
devoted husband. Your slightest wish will be my law. You will not be
separated from your parents, with either of whom you can dwell for such
periods as you think fit. Marry me, and every ill now threatening your
mother will dissolve into thin air!"
At that crisis the image of Laurence Tollemache obliterated that of the
little man with the grating voice, and Yvonne could have laughed aloud.
But she kept her head. The naïve habit of thought induced by close
communion with her Breton friends stood her in good stead then, when a
false move might precipitate she knew not what ills.
"Is that the price of your silence?" she said, and the clear, precise
enunciation recalled her mother in every syllable.
"That is not a fair way to put it," was the hoarse answer; for the
strain was beginning to tell, even on Raymond's nerves of steel.
"Let me hear how you put it," she went on mercilessly.
"We would be making a compact to our mutual advantage," he said. "I
would gain a beautiful and accomplished wife; you would inherit your
mother's millions. We would unite in protecting her and punishing Rupert
Fosdyke."
"I see," she said, with an air of careful consideration. "You do not
want an answer tonight, I suppose?"
"Time is pressing--horribly pressing."
"In that respect time must stand still until tomorrow. We shall meet
then."
She went off without any attempt at bidding him farewell. Raymond glared
after her fixedly. He was annoyed, almost discomfited, but not
disheartened. He had taken the step that counts. She knew now what lay
at the back of his projects, and that was a long stride toward the goal.
He was so deeply absorbed in reckoning the pros and cons of every word
Yvonne had spoken that he failed to see Tollemache standing outside
Julia's until close on him. Even then he could not find his tongue; so
he merely grinned. Thus might a fiend gloat over a soul in peril. Was
there none to help? Raymond, at any rate, saw a clear road. He was most
affable to the porter who was waiting to assist him in undressing. For a
man with a broken arm he had struck a shrewd blow in Pont Aven that
night.