“I have not the means to send her away. O God, I’d kill myself if I dared, but that would only leave her destitute and at the mercy of the men who have destroyed me.”
“You have destroyed yourself,” I said sternly. “But I have no time to discuss this with you. So far as I am concerned, I prefer that you include every detail of our interview yesterday in your confession to M. Volheno. Hide nothing, for I have nothing to fear.”
Having made him believe that I was indifferent, I rose and turned to the door, and then paused.
“I don’t know that I have quite understood one thing you said—about not having means to send your wife away. Does that mean that you have no money.”
“Yes,” he replied disconsolately. “My salary is not large and I cannot save.”
“Oh, if that’s all, you must allow my pity for your wife and children to take a practical shape. How much money would she require?”
“I don’t know,” he said, wringing his hands fatuously.
“Try and think it out, then;” and while he was doing this I turned my side of the matter over and came to the conclusion that as his presence was a menace to Miralda’s safety, the sooner he was out of Lisbon the better. The moment this abduction plot failed, a dozen informers were certain to offer evidence, and he and his wife would certainly be accused.
“About two hundred and fifty milreis, Mr. Donnington,” he said, looking up at last.
“Well, you asked my advice just now, and I’ll give it you. You are ill both in mind and body. Any one can see that, and in such a condition, no one can form a calm judgment. Ask M. Volheno to give you a fortnight’s holiday and leave the country to-night. I will give you double the sum you ask for now. Go to Paris and give your address to M. Madrillo, at the Spanish Embassy. He will let me know it and I will send you another two hundred and fifty milreis, and will let you know the position here.”