Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"A little farther up stream. Good morning."

"Ah, good morning; but I may see you again if you are living near."

"I live," said Basil, "in the house yonder."

[CHAPTER VI.]

A sudden excitement was observable in the stranger. He paused in his undressing, and laid his hand on Basil's arm, clutching with nervous fingers.

"You are very intimate with M. Anthony Bidaud?" he said.

"We are friends."

"Friends? Ah! You are not related? No, you cannot be, for you are English. Yet there are other ties. His wife is dead, you say, and as I know. Yes, dead. But he may be looking for another, may be already married again." He spoke in feverish haste. ("A touch of the jackal here," thought Basil.) "Tell me, you friend of M. Anthony Bidaud."

"He is not married again," said Basil, "and to my knowledge is not seeking another wife."

The stranger drew a long breath of relief, followed immediately by the exhibition of a new suspicion. "His daughter, Annette--if he spoke truth a child. But men lie sometimes, very often, you, I, all men. He married long, long ago, and this Annette may well be a young woman of twenty." He scowled as he looked at Basil's handsome face. "Is she married, or going to be?