“They are on their way to Paris. Bertha wished to visit her friend and I thought it was all right for her to go.”
“Then that story you told me about her going away in a carriage with Jack De Vinne was a lie?”
Clarence could not help smiling as he replied: “Well, I must confess it was not a very close approach to the truth.”
“I judged not,” said his father. “I did not believe it when you told me. You said Bertha was going to stay with a friend in Paris. What is her name and where does she live?”
“She is the Countess Mont d’Oro, and she lives at 22, Rue St. Francis.”
“Is Jack De Vinne in Paris?”
“I presume he is at Noxton Hall,” was Clarence’s guarded reply. He did not think it necessary or advisable to tell his father that he had written Jack the morning that his wife and Bertha had left London that the latter was on her way to Paris to become the guest of the Countess Mont d’Oro.
There was silence for some time. Clarence grew impatient and turned his head. His father was evidently in deep thought.
“That will do,” he said at last. “I hope you have told me the truth. If you have not, I shall soon find out the extent of your deception. I shall leave to-night for London and will go to Paris to-morrow morning. Mr. Lake will be your companion until I return. If I find my ward is still Miss Renville, and I bring her back with me, I will dismiss the case against you. If she is married, Mr. Lake will escort you to London and you will have to stand the consequences of your very foolish action. I shall be obliged to take charge of my London business again, for I shall be a comparatively poor man when Miss Renville, or Mrs. Whatever-her-name-may-be, demands her inheritance, for, no doubt, you have told her that she is a rich woman by right.”
Clarence sprang to his feet. “I have not told her one word. She has heard nothing from me.”