"So you think I would tell you lies, Gibson?"
"No, Ma'am, no. You're dealing with me fair. But how long will you be able to manage Susan if her head gets any more turned? And oh, Miss Gertrude ... I ask pardon--but this isn't no job for a young lady like you, as pure as an angel, that doesn't know this wicked world. Ma'am, if he's a scoundrel, he'll deceive Susan and he'll deceive you, Ma'am, as easy as looking at you! Oh, Ma'am, you don't understand! I can put up with losing Susan, though it'll kill me. I can put up with her being took away honest. But----"
He brought his lips to my ear and finished his sentence:
"If there's any devil's work, it'll be murder for him and hanging for me. Miss Gertrude, may I come to France?"
I drew a step away.
"No, Gibson," I answered, assuming a calmness and a mastery which I did not feel. "You can't come to France. There is no need. I am sorry for you--deeply sorry--and I respect you for some of the things you have said. But you are excited. You have been brooding. You've got morbid, exaggerated fears."
He came towards me again.
"Gibson, wait till I've finished. You stopped me saying something that ought to satisfy you. It is this. At Sainte Véronique, Susan will be under my eye all the time. If this man follows her, I shall know. And I pledge you my word that, if he comes, I will write to you--no, I will telegraph--and then you can do whatever you please."
"You pledge me your word, Ma'am?"
"I said so."