"At any rate," I said, half to myself, "he could not have been in Paris more than three weeks. I do not understand how in that three weeks he could have obtained such a hold upon you that you should come here and do his bidding blindly, although you must know that some of the things he does are extraordinary and mysterious."
She was obviously distressed.
"There is something," she said, "of course, which I am not telling you,—something which I promised to keep secret. But, Austen," she went on, laying her fingers upon my coat sleeve, "let me tell you this. I am getting more and more worried every day. I understand nothing. The explanations which I have had from my uncle grow more and more extraordinary. Why we are here, why he is still in hiding, why he lives in the shadow of such fear day by day, I cannot imagine. I am beginning to lose heart. Through the telephone last night I told him that I must see him. He has half promised that I shall, to-day or to-morrow. I shall tell him, Austen, that I must know more about the reasons for all this mystery, or I will go back to Madame Quintaine's. I wrote to her soon after I came here, when I was frightened, and she told me that she would gladly have me back. My uncles have always paid her a good deal of money," she went on, "for taking care of me."
I drew a long breath of relief.
"Felicia," I said, "you are talking like a dear, sensible little woman. But," I added, "you have not answered my question!"
She looked away, laughing.
"Of course you are not in earnest!" she exclaimed.
"Of course I am!" I persisted.
"You must know," she said softly, "that I could not do a thing like that. My uncle has always been so kind to me—"
"But you have only seen him three weeks," I interrupted. "Before that he was in Brazil!"