She shook her head and smiled up at him. She was immensely interested.
“If that is the worst,” she said gently, “I am not at all frightened. You know that it is my profession to write about men and women. I belong to a world of worn-out types, and to meet any one different is quite a luxury.”
“The worst!” A sudden fear sent an icy coldness shivering through his veins. His heart seemed to stop beating, his cheeks were blanched. The worst of him. He had not told her that he was a robber, that the foundation of his fortunes was a lie; that there lived a man who might bring all this great triumph of his shattered and crumbling about his ears. A passionate fear lest she might ever know of these things was born in his heart at that moment, never altogether to leave him.
The sound of a footstep close at hand made them both turn their heads. Along the winding path came Da Souza, with an ugly smirk upon his white face, smoking a cigar whose odour seemed to poison the air. Trent turned upon him with a look of thunder.
“What do you want here, Da Souza?” he asked fiercely.
Da Souza held up the palms of his hands.
“I was strolling about,” he said, “and I saw you through the trees. I did not know that you were so pleasantly engaged,” he added, with a wave of his hat to the girl, “or I would not have intruded.”
Trent kicked open the little iron gate which led into the garden beyond.
“Well, get out, and don't come here again,” he said shortly. “There's plenty of room for you to wander about and poison the air with those abominable cigars of yours without coming here.”
Da Souza replaced his hat upon his head. “The cigars, my friend, are excellent. We cannot all smoke the tobacco of a millionaire, can we, miss?”