“Can you go to the woman at your former lodgings?”
“Yes!”
“Then I will take you there to-night. To-morrow we will be married before the Procureur du Roi; in the evening we leave for England.”
“Yes, yes!” she murmured.
“When he comes in I’ll engage him in conversation,” I continued hurriedly. “You make a dash for the door and run downstairs as fast as you can. I’ll follow as quickly as may be and meet you under the porte-cochere.”
She had only just time to nod assent when the door which gave on the sitting-room was pushed open, and Farewell, unconscious at first of our presence, stepped quietly into the room.
“Estelle,” he cried, more puzzled than angry when he suddenly caught sight of us both, “what are you doing here with that lout?”
I was trembling with excitement—not fear, of course, though Farewell was a powerful-looking man, a head taller than I was. I stepped boldly forward, covering the adored one with my body.
“The lout,” I said with calm dignity, “has frustrated the machinations of a knave. To-morrow I go to England in order to place Mademoiselle Estelle Bachelier under the protection of her legal guardians, Messieurs Pike and Sons, solicitors, of London.”
He gave a cry of rage, and before I could retire to some safe entrenchment behind the table or the sofa, he was upon me like a mad dog. He had me by the throat, and I had rolled backwards down on to the floor, with him on the top of me, squeezing the breath out of me till I verily thought that my last hour had come. Estelle had run out of the room like a startled hare. This, of course, was in accordance with my instructions to her, but I could not help wishing then that she had been less obedient and somewhat more helpful.