“Perhaps,” she said earnestly, “I am anxious to earn your gratitude. Perhaps, too, I know that no interposition of yours would be of any avail.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“Still,” he said, “I do not think that it is wise of you. I might appear at the station and forcibly prevent Lucille’s departure. After all, she is my wife, you know.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I am not afraid,” she said. “You will make inquiries when I have gone, and you will find out that I have spoken the truth. If you keep Lucille in England you will expose her to a terrible risk. It is not like you to be selfish. You will yield to necessity.”
“Will you tell me where Lucille is now?” he asked.
“For your own sake and hers, no,” she answered. “You also are watched. Besides, it is too late. She was with Brott half an hour after the Duke turned us out of Dorset House. Don’t you understand, Victor—won’t you? It is too late.”
He sat down heavily in his easy-chair. His whole appearance was one of absolute dejection.
“So I am to be left alone in my old age,” he murmured. “You have your revenge now at last. You have come to take it.”
She sank on her knees by the side of his chair, and her arms fell upon his shoulders.