He rose to his feet suddenly; seized her wrist. Her eyes fastened on him; but he knew his mastery.
“You fool!” he said. “Why don’t you go and tell her so—tell her that he lies here, in the house of Cartouche’s mistress, dying for love of her? Why, if I’d known—the man who lent me money in a crisis—I’d die to serve him. And that other—a dog to treat you so! I’ve no love for him—I own it—and here’s a score paid off. Go at once—while the old glamour lasts—before he’s time to return and urge his suit. You’ll find her in her house in the Zecca—Di Rocco’s. I’ll—”
She threw him off violently. He pretended a furious anger—snatched up his hat—made for the door.
“Rot in your folly!” he roared. “I’ve said my last to you!” and so raged away—confident of the fruit the seed he’d sown should come to bear.
The dusk was falling. In the shadowy room the girl lay flung, face downwards on a chair. To her, palpitating, sobbing, wringing her plump hands, entered Fiorentina.
“O, mistress! What have happened? What have he done to ye? And him upstairs, ever since he heard his voice, crying on ‘Yolande! Yolande!’ to come and save him from a great spider that have got him in its web.”
The other came to her feet, gasping, driving back the tumbled hair from her temples.
“Tell him,” she said, “that if she’s human, he shall have her. Tell him that I’m going this moment to fetch her to him.”
She broke off, catching her breath into a whisper:—
“No, tell him nothing. I’ll bring my own message.”