“Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to you I am innocent, indeed—indeed.”
“I believe it, I know it,” cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; “but oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh, it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you—that man—he has us in his power.”
“I beg your pardon,” said a soft voice; “I think I must have left my gloves in here. Yes, there they are!” and Paul Montaigne quietly crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled and went softly out.
The cousins gazed in each other’s eyes, motionless, till they heard the closing of the front door.
“Oh, Marie,” whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, “he must have heard every word you said!”
And Marie echoed hoarsely, “Every word!”
Mr Montaigne allowed a couple of days to elapse before he called again in Saint James’s, and then, serious man as he was, he swore, for the shutters were closed: the family was out of town.
It was no unusual time for anyone to go, for, as he stood there hesitating on the step, a slatternly-looking girl was making the streets ring with her minor-pitched cry of “Sixteen branches a penny—new lavender; sixteen branches a penny.” It was well on in August, and fashionable London was taking wing.
“Clever woman!” thought Montaigne: “this is her move; but I can mate her when I please.”