“Certainly,” he said firmly; “it must be done. Lock the door after me,” he whispered, as he crossed the studio.
Cornel followed and obeyed, listening to his descending steps. Then, returning to where Valentina lay insensible, she satisfied herself of the security of the bandages, and once more felt her pulse.
“If there is no internal bleeding she will live. Yes, I will forgive you. Some day you may know the truth. And then? Ah, who can tell?”
She bent down and kissed the broad forehead, and then knelt there for a few moments before rising and going quickly into Armstrong’s bedroom to gaze at him for a minute, and return, carefully closing after her both the doors.
She kept her vigil there for a few minutes before there were steps again, and a soft tap at the door.
She admitted the Conte.
“I have a carriage waiting, and a man here to help,” he said.
“I am not clever and experienced,” said Cornel anxiously. “Let a doctor see her first.”
For answer the Conte gave her a quick nod.
“It is secrecy, is it not?”