With a strange misgiving that she was entirely betrayed—that possibly Finette or some other servant had watched her, unseen, and reported her secret doings—she glanced for a second at a tall cabinet standing in a corner of the room, near the pianoforte—a curious old piece of eighteenth-century furniture, inlaid with paintings on enamel.
Frank Amberley lowered his gaze, and appeared simply to wait for an answer.
“They have, then, sent you upon this ridiculous errand?” said the signora. “It is a fool’s message, undertaken by a simpleton.”
“You say this story has been hatched up by designing persons, with a view to extort money——”
“Or by a pitiful coward who desires to harass and torment me,” interrupted the young woman.
“Aye. As you will. I asked you where this book is concealed. I know you have not destroyed it. You had doubtless your own motives for preserving such a damning piece of evidence against yourself——”
“I foresee that I shall be obliged to dismiss you from the house, sir,” again interrupted Madam Guiscardini, rising, concentrated fury blazing in her eyes. “You shall not continue to annoy and insult me under my own roof.”
“Pardon me, madam. I do not wish to be other than courteous in conducting this unpleasant affair. My own interest in it is less than nothing. Did I consult my own wishes, I should not lift a finger to coerce you. Bear with me for a few moments longer. I said, I asked you where this registry-book is hidden away. The question was put merely to try you.”
“Oh, indeed! Monsieur grows more and more incomprehensible. May I hope that this preposterous little farce is nearly played out?”
“Very nearly, madam. The terrible drama that has been performed is also, I believe, almost at an end. I know where that parchment-bound volume is.”