Durban looked at her sharply. "Then you did go for that walk, missy?"
"Yes, I had to. Mr. Paslow wished to see me. Durban"--she made a step forward, and clutched his arm tightly--"I'll tell you what I don't intend to tell any one else," and without giving the man time to make an observation, she related the whole story of her adventure, suppressing only the episode of the handkerchief. This she did, so as to avert any possible suspicion from Vivian, since Durban, knowing that Paslow had been with her, would not connect him with the crime--that is, if he was stupid enough not to calculate the time, and thus prove the futility of the alibi.
Durban listened quietly enough. "I am glad that Mr. Paslow will marry you, missy," he said at last, and removed her grasp from his arm. "You will inherit a lot of money from the dead master. It ought to be twenty thousand a year!"
"But, Durban, Mr. Alpenny told me very plainly that if he died, I would be a pauper."
"I don't believe it," burst out the half-caste; "he would not dare to--to----" Here he halted and stammered, "C--c--curse him!"
"Durban!" She stepped back a pace in sheer amazement at the savagery of the tone.
"Dead, or alive, curse him!" cried Durban, his voice gathering strength from the intensity of his hate. "He was a scoundrel--you don't know how great a scoundrel. Missy"--he grasped her arm in his turn--"you shall have the money, I swear it. Then marry Mr. Paslow, and go away for a few years, till all blows over."
"Till what blows over?" asked Beatrice anxiously.
"Hush!" Durban let go her arm, and controlled himself by a violent effort. "The police! Say as little as you can. You know nothing--I know nothing."
"Durban, are you afraid?"