“What am I to say?” he said at last.
“Tell me—everything.”
He still remained retentive; but there was a grim smile full of pity and contempt for himself upon his lips as he said coldly—
“Monsieur De Ligny has been.”
“Monsieur De Ligny?”
“The French gentleman, the member of the haute noblesse who was to marry Miss Vine.”
Madelaine looked at him wonderingly.
“Mr Leslie,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm and believing that she saw delirium in his eyes, consequent upon his injury, her late experience having made her prone to anticipate such a sequel. “Mr Leslie, do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes, perfectly,” he said slowly. “Monsieur De Ligny, the French gentleman of whom Miss Marguerite so often talked to me, came last night, while Mr Vine was at your father’s, and he was persuading Louise to go with him, when I interfered and said she should not go till her father returned.”
“Yes?—well?” said Madelaine, watching him keenly.