“Clement is very ill—”
“So much the greater reason that he should have been removed—”
“You were not expected for two days yet. You cabled that you were coming on the Mauretania.”
“Yes, I cabled that. Elisabetta,”—this to his wife standing silently in the background—“we will go to the Plaza for tonight. At three o’clock tomorrow we shall expect to find this house in readiness for our return. Later, if Mrs. Quintard desires to visit us we shall be pleased to receive her. But”—this to Mrs. Quintard herself—“you must come without Clement and the kids.”
Mrs. Quintard’s rigid hand stole up to her throat.
“Clement is dying. He is failing hourly,” she murmured. “He may not live till morning.”
Even Carlos was taken aback by this. “Oh, well!” said he, “we will give you two days.”
Mrs. Quintard gasped, then she walked straight up to him.
“You will give us all the time his condition requires and more, much more. He is the real owner of this house, not you. My brother left a will bequeathing it to him. You are my nephew’s guests, and not he yours. As his representative I entreat you and your wife to remain here until you can find a home to your mind.”
The silence seethed. Carlos had a temper of fire and so had his wife. But neither spoke, till he had gained sufficient control over himself to remark without undue rancour: