“I am afraid,” he said bluntly, “that she came to see me.”
The woman’s eyes flashed.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Go on.”
Saton took her hand, and held it between his. It was dry and withered, but the nails were exquisitely manicured, and the fingers were aflame with jewels.
“Dear Rachael,” he said, “you must remember that when I was alone in London waiting to hear from you, I naturally saw a good deal of Helga. She was kind to me, and she was the means by which your letters and messages reached me. I am afraid,” he continued, thoughtfully, “that I was so happy, in those days, to have found anyone who was kind and talked decently to me, that I may have misled her. There has been a little trouble once or twice since. I have tried to be pleasant and friendly with her. She seems—forgive me if it sounds conceited—she seems to want more.”
“Hussy!” the old lady declared. “She shall go.”
“Don’t send her away,” he begged, replacing her hand gently on her lap. “I daresay it was entirely my fault.”
The woman looked at him, and a cruel smile parted her lips.
“I have no doubt it was,” she said. “You are like that, you know, Bertrand. Still, one must have discipline. She asked for a day’s holiday to go into the country to see her relatives, and I find her going to see you behind my back. It cannot be permitted.”
“It will not happen again,” he assured her. “I feel myself so much to blame.”