"Yes. If ye insist——"
"I do. It's a test—of the truth—between you and—and him——"
"I'll provide it. Ye'll leave with me on the twelve o'clock train for Marseilles?"
"Yes—anything."
"Very well," he muttered. "I'll arrange for it. I've some business in Nice. It's just as well if you come along."
"Anything——," she whispered, shivering and still protesting, "but I don't believe—I don't believe——"
"Go to bed again, child. I'll call ye in the morning."
As she disappeared he turned toward the mantel, hiding the smile of triumph that crossed his lips. Then he leaned for a long while looking into the hearth.
"Poor child!" he whispered. "'Tis a cruel pity, but—" He paused and then turned toward the bottle upon the table, which he raised and examined carefully, then set down with an air of disgust. "The drunken scut!" he muttered, then swore softly below his breath.
* * * * *