“Shall I presume too much upon your kindness,” said Mr. Glynne, “if I ask you where my ward has gone?”
The Count did not answer the question. “You say, Mr. Glynne, that your ward and this young man were but chance acquaintances; why is he so anxious to marry her—because she is beautiful, because she is rich, or both?”
Mr. Glynne thought that the truth might improve his position. “She has a large fortune in her own right—forty thousand pounds in our money; about a million francs in yours.”
The Count gave a long, low whistle. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but that would make a fine dowry.”
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris, I presume you will tell him where my ward has gone?”
“Well, really, I do not think I shall,” said the Count. “The information came into my possession in rather a peculiar manner and I must protect the person who gave it to me. You will be surprised, sir, at something I am going to tell you. I have met Miss Renville and I have fallen in love with her myself. I did not know at the time that she was wealthy, but that makes little difference to me; in fact, no difference at all, for I have money enough of my own and would marry her without a dowry as soon as with one. Who has charge of her fortune?”
“I have,” answered Mr. Glynne.
“And no doubt you would like to keep it.” The Count smiled as he uttered the words. The smile was contagious and one flickered across Mr. Glynne’s fat, round face.
“I should not be human,” he replied, “if I would not.”
“Well,” said the Count, “two heads are better than one. I will make a bargain with you. If you will give your consent to my marrying your ward, and will help me to bring about that happy event, I will take her without a dowry and you may keep the money. Is it a bargain?”