“You are sure?” he said wistfully, even plaintively. “That is not the meaning Jean Ferret put upon it.”
“He was mistaken.”
“It may be, it may be,” he returned, greatly crestfallen, picking up his tray and preparing to go. “But Jean Ferret was very positive.”
“And I am even more so!”
“Then that malicious maid of Mademoiselle Ward’s was mistaken also,” he sighed, “when she said that now a marriage is to take place between Mademoiselle Ward and Monsieur Ingle—”
“Proceed,” I bade him.
He moved a few feet nearer the kitchen. “The malicious woman said to Jean Ferret—” He paused and coughed. “It was in reference to those Italian jewels monsieur used to send—”
“What about them?” I asked ominously.
“The woman says that Mademoiselle Ward—” he increased the distance between us—“that now she should give them to Mademoiselle Elliott! GOOD night, monsieur!”
His entrance into the kitchen was precipitate. I sank down again into the wicker chair (from which I had hastily risen) and contemplated the stars. But the short reverie into which I then fell was interrupted by Mr. Percy, who, sauntering leisurely about the garden, paused to address me.