"How could you think that, ma tante?" ejaculated Crystal hotly: "a good motive? to rob us at dead of night—he, a friend of Victor de Marmont—an adherent of the Corsican! . . ."
"Englishmen are not adherents of the Corsican, my dear," retorted Madame drily, "and until Maurice's appearance this morning, I was satisfied that the money would ultimately reach His Majesty's own hands."
"But we were taking the money to His Majesty ourselves."
"And Victor de Marmont was after it. Mr. Clyffurde may have known that. . . . Remember, my dear," continued Madame, "that these were my impressions last night. Maurice's account of the den of cutthroats has modified these entirely."
Again Crystal was silent. The frown had darkened on her face: there was a line of bitter resentment round her lips—a look of contempt, of hate, of a desire to hurt, in her eyes.
"Maurice," she said abruptly at last.
"Yes?"
"I did wound that thief, did I not?"
"Yes. In the shoulder . . . it gave me a slight advantage . . ." he said with affected modesty.
"I am glad. And you . . . you were able to punish him too, I hope."