“It is not true,” said a sharp voice; and Justine stepped forward to the table, with her dark eyes flashing, her white teeth set, so that she cut the words as they came through, and in her excitement and championship of her young mistress becoming exceedingly French. “I say it is not true. You canaille you, vis your silly talk about ze organiste. It is all a lie—a great lie to say such vicked, cruel thing of my dear young lady. Ah, bah! that for you all,” she cried, snapping her fingers, “you big silly fool, all the whole. What, my young mistress go to degrade herself vis one evasion, comme ça! She could it not do. Sare, I am angry—it make me folle to hear you talk. I say it is not true.”
“Damme, you’re a trump, Justine,” cried Tom, excitedly, as he caught her hand and wrung it. “You are right. She would not degrade herself like that.”
“They are so stupide.”
“Yes,” cried Tom; “and mind this—any one who dares to put about such a disgraceful scandal—hallo! who’s this?”
There was a loud ring just then, and the butler looked in a scared way at Tom.
“Well, go and open it,” he said.
The next minute there were voices and steps heard in the hall, and directly after Sir Grantley Wilters came in, followed by a policeman, and a ragged, dirty looking little man, whose toes peeped out in rows from his boots, and who held in his hand a very battered brimless hat, which he kept rubbing when he was not engaged in pulling his forelock to first one servant and then another.
“Oh, here you are,” said Tom, sharply, as the baronet advanced. “She’s gone off with Melton, hasn’t she?”
“N-no,” said the bridegroom elect, dejectedly. “I believe it’s as they say.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for,” said Tom, sharply. “Now then, what do you know about it?” he cried to the policeman. “But stop a moment. Here, the whole pack of you, clear out. And mind this—Mademoiselle Justine is right. Thank you, Justine. Go to her ladyship now. I shan’t forget this.”