Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.
She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.
“No, my dear, not come yet.”
Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.
“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”
Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.
She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.
Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.
“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”
“I did, mamma.”