“But how can M’sieu Cabot think so low of me that for a paltry thousand-dollar——”
“The five hundred you get now,” he detailed. “The check for a thousand will be dated so that you can cash it in June, unless traitoring has become a habit with you. If it does, I shall stop payment at the bank. You will leave this house and Mrs. Cabot’s employ at once. Satisfactory?”
The click of the last-word question must have satisfied the maid that she could profit no further.
“Quite,” she replied, succinctly as he.
Without comment on the fact that he had read her aright, John Cabot counted five century notes from his wallet and drew the promised check, calling her attention to the date, six months from that day.
When she had gone he said to Dolores:
“I want my freedom, but not at your expense.”
“You really think,” the girl faltered, “that that is why Annette is here?”
He nodded. “And why you are here and why I should not be. I have been inexcusable. I am the traitor—the waster of what I valued most.”
“Don’t keep saying that,” she protested. “Nothing can be wasted when we love. Jack lived and died that we might know.”