“Jack De Vinne?” cried Mrs. Glynne. “Has he been here?”
“For a long time,” said the Countess. “He has been here every day to see if I had any news about you. He is a very sad, unhappy young man. He has gone to his father’s place in Scotland. I must write at once and tell him of your safety. Perhaps, though, it would be better if Miss Renville would write him. I will give you his address.”
“Oh, yes, that will be much better,” said Jennie. “And now that I have delivered you into the arms of your friend, the Countess,” she added, “I must go right back to London. I have no doubt that my husband is distracted.”
“Will you excuse me, Bertha?” said the Countess. “I cannot call you Miss Renville, it is too formal.”
“Nor do I wish you to,” said Bertha. “No one calls me Miss Renville, except——”
“Mr. De Vinne,” said Jennie, with a laugh, “but he won’t much longer.”
“Mrs. Glynne,” said the Countess, “I have something to tell you,” and she led her into an anteroom.
“What is it,” cried Jennie. “My husband, Clarence, is he dead?”
“Oh, no,” said the Countess, “but his father writes me that he is very sick, prostrated, no doubt, by the news of your supposed death. He is at his father’s residence; I forget——”
“Oh, I know,” said Jennie—“Buckholme. I have never been there. We were secretly married. Perhaps you do not know, but Clarence’s father wished him to marry Bertha, but he couldn’t because I was his wife, but his father didn’t know that. I suppose it is all out now and I’m glad of it. I will go to him at once.”