“Louy!” he half shouted at her, “have some patience.”
“Patience, dear? Think of our father’s agony of mind. He loves us.”
“Then the joy of finding we are both alive and well must compensate for what he suffers now.”
“But you do not realise what must be thought of me.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” he said bitterly; “but you do not realise what would be thought of me, if it were known that I was alive. I shiver every time I meet a policeman. Can’t you see how I am placed?”
“Yes—yes,” said Louise wearily; “but at times I can only think of our father—of Madelaine—of Uncle Luke.”
“Hush?” he cried with an irritable stamp of the foot. “Have patience. Once we are on the Continent I shall feel as if I could breathe; but this wretched dilatory way of getting money worries me to death.”
“Then why not sell the jewels, and let us go?”
“That’s talking like a woman again. It’s very easy to talk about selling the jewels, and it is easy to sell them if you go to some blackguard who will take advantage of your needs, and give you next to nothing for them. But, as Pradelle says—”
“Pradelle!” ejaculated Louise, with a look of dislike crossing her face.