Paul Desfrayne’s weakness did not last many minutes.
Rising to his feet, he strode backward and forward half a dozen times; then, pausing, he leaned his folded arms on the back of the low, carved chair into which he had at first thrown himself.
“You alarm me, Paul. I beseech you, tell me the worst at once,” implored his mother.
“You may see with what an effort I try to approach the secret which, for three long years, has been my curse by day and by night,” answered Paul mournfully.
Mrs. Desfrayne threw out her hands with an involuntary gesture of fear and amazement.
“For three years!” she repeated, as if incredulous.
“What do you imagine that secret to have been?” he demanded, gazing steadfastly at her.
“Good heavens! how can I imagine when, until this moment, I did not know you had any concealment from me at all?” exclaimed Mrs. Desfrayne.
Her accent was indicative half of despair, half of keen reproach.
“As you are aware, I have just received a most singular offer.”