"You will at least write to me, to Paris?" he said pleadingly. "Aymar, do consider——"
"Yes, I will write." He had pulled down a cloak. "It is only that I must get away to . . . to think things over. I have written a note to my grandmother. I dare not see her—she would guess."
An idea struck Laurent. He went up to him and put a hand on his shoulder once more. "Aymar, unless you will give me your word of honour that you are not going away to do . . . what you spoke of in the cave . . . I shall accompany you!"
The faintest trace of a smile came. "Dear Laurent! . . . I give you my word."
"May I at least come down the avenue with you?"
"Please. And . . . forgive my leaving you—your last night. I am ashamed . . . but I cannot stay till to-morrow."
Laurent made a gesture. "As if you ever needed to apologize to me!"
When they got to the door of the room he said suddenly, "Has Mme de Morsan left the house?"
"Yes, about an hour ago."
"Thank Heaven! Because—I suppose men have shot women before now!"