"You are polite, I must say," said Maraquita, coolly, "but I'm used to your manners by this time, so we need not argue about them. Let us talk business, and tell me why you object to my leaving a card on Lady Errington, seeing that she is a great personage down here, and may be useful to us."
"You ask me a question of which you know the answer well enough," returned the Major deliberately. "Lady Errington is the daughter of Gabriel Mostyn, and I don't suppose you want your relationship with him raked up."
"I don't see there is much chance of that," she replied contemptuously. "Mostyn is dead, and his daughter knows nothing about me."
"Don't you be too sure of that," said Griff significantly. "This girl attended to her father for four years when he was ill, and Mostyn with his monkeyish nature was just the man to torture a woman by telling her all kinds of things of which she would rather have remained ignorant."
"Still, she was his daughter, and even Mostyn would hold his tongue about some things to her."
"Humph! I'm not so sure of that."
"Are you not?--I am."
The Major frowned, pulled his moustache, and then finishing his sherry at one gulp, spoke sharply.
"You appear to be sure of a good many things, Maraquita, but perhaps you will be kind enough to remember that union means strength, and that your well-being in the eyes of the world is of just as much importance to our schemes as my knowledge of human nature. If I hadn't made you leave London, things would have been said which would have closed every door against you."
"And what about yourself?" asked the Creole her dark eyes flashing dangerously as she shut her fan with a sharp click.