“Where is she?” Rachael demanded.
“In the country, at Beauleys,” he answered. “The Rochesters have all left town yesterday or to-day, and she went with them.”
“Then into the country we go,” she declared. “It is an opportune time, too. We shall be out of the way if troubles come from these interfering people. I do not ask you again, Bertrand, whether you will or will not marry this girl. For the first time I exercise my rights over you. I demand that you marry her. Be as faithless as you like. You are as fickle as a man can be, and as shallow. Make love to her for a year, and treat her as these Englishmen treat their housekeepers, if you will. But marry her you must! It is the money we need—the money! What is that?”
The bell was ringing from a telephone instrument upon the table. Saton lifted it to his ear.
“There is a trunk call for you,” a voice said. “Please hold the line.”
Saton waited. Soon a familiar voice came.
“Who is that?” it asked.
“Bertrand Saton,” Saton answered.
“Listen,” the voice said. “I am Huntley. I speak from Folkestone. I am crossing to-night to Paris. Dorrington is already on ahead. Someone has been employing detectives to track us down. It commenced with that letter—the one for which you settled terms yourself. You hear?”
“I hear,” Saton answered. “Was it necessary for you, too, to go?”