“I will send him to you to-morrow, my dear friend,” said Paul Desfrayne. “Heaven grant me a happy issue to this search. But—but the suspense will be something unbearable.”
“Why, you will constantly hear how the affair is progressing,” urged Frank Amberley. “Do you think I could aid you by insisting on an interview with—with this woman?”
Paul shook his head.
“I fear it would be time wasted,” he answered. “She would, perhaps, insult and annoy you——”
“Pshaw! Her most violent attack would only make me laugh, my dear fellow,” interrupted Frank Amberley. “It would be amusing. In fact, I should really like to see this lovely tigress in her own den. One doesn’t often enjoy a chance of interviewing a beautiful fury.”
Paul Desfrayne grasped Frank’s hands, and looked earnestly into those open, candid eyes that yet faithfully veiled the secret that their owner was a noble, self-sacrificing hero, offering up a possible gleam of happiness on the altar of duty. Paul saw nothing but a kind, pleasant, genial man, who undertook a matter of business with the genial air of a friend.
“I leave the affair entirely in your care,” he said, “knowing full well that you will not neglect anything that may tend to free me from the cruel burden that weighs me down.”
“You give me permission to speak as fully to this Italian valet as I may find necessary?” asked Frank Amberley.
He lowered his gaze as he demanded this; his heart felt heavy and sad, and he feared lest Paul Desfrayne might read his thoughts.
“Certainly. I give you carte blanche in every way.”