“A black ’un!” said Barkstow savagely. “If she’s the one we think she is—a black, poisonous, sly one with a face that no girl could suspect.”
Coombe’s still countenance was so deadly in the slow lividness, which Mademoiselle saw began to manifest itself, that she caught his sleeve with a shaking hand.
“She’s nothing but a baby!” she said. “She doesn’t know what a baby she is. I can see her eyes frantic with terror! She’d go mad.”
“Good God!” he said, in a voice so low it was scarcely audible.
He almost dragged her out of the room, though, as they passed through the hall, the servants only saw that he had given the lady his arm—and two of the younger footmen exchanged glances with each other which referred solely to the inimitableness of the cut of his evening overcoat.
When they entered the carriage, Barkstow entered with them and Mademoiselle Vallé leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her face clutched in her hands. She was trying to shut out from her mental vision a memory of Robin’s eyes.
“If—if Fräulein Hirsch is—not true,” she broke out once. “Count von Hillern is concerned. It has come upon me like a flash. Why did I not see before?”
The party at the big house, where the red carpet was rolled across the pavement, was at full height when they drove into the Place. Their brougham did not stop at the corner but at the end of the line of waiting carriages.
Coombe got out and looked up and down the thoroughfare.
“It must be done quietly. There must be no scandal,” he said. “The policeman on the beat is an enormous fellow. You will attend to him, Barkstow,” and Barkstow nodded and strolled away.