“What possible lie can we think of? Claire will not come back to-night—she must know, sooner or later.”
“But it is for to-night I want to spare her. Ah, I have it—no lie, either. I merely send a telegram, ‘Claire may not return to-night: will explain to-morrow,’ signed with my name; she will think Claire is passing the night with me; and then, you know, the girl may, at the last moment, decide not to go.”
Damier had to yield to her eagerness. Up-stairs the words he had with Daunay were short, bitter, decisive. Averting his eyes from the unfortunate man’s face, he put the case before him. He turned his back on him when he had spoken, went to the window, left him to an unobserved quaffing of the poisonous cup.
Monsieur Daunay’s first words showed that he had quaffed it bravely and that his reason still stood firm.
“She must be mad,” he said; “it is not like her.”
“No, it is not like her. And I may tell you that I suspect revenge to be in part her motive. She had a terrible quarrel with her mother this afternoon.”
Damier turned now and faced him.
“And now, Monsieur Daunay, are you willing to save her?”
“I am ready,” the Frenchman said quietly; “with your help, I am ready to save her.”
“I go at once, and with that assurance, then?”