“Where is your husband?”
“Out, sir. He—he was obliged to go to the ville.”
“And still it is impossible,” said Stratton slowly as he looked appealingly in the old man’s eyes. “It cannot be true. Brettison, tell me that my mind is wandering; all this is more than I can bear.”
“Shall I wait, monsieur?” asked the woman, who was trembling visibly.
“No, I am better now,” said Brettison. “Leave me with my friend,”—and as soon as they were alone—“I shall not want a doctor now. There is some mystery here, Malcolm, lad, far more than we know.”
“Thank God!” said Stratton, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.
“Stratton,” cried the old man fiercely, “is it a time to give up weakly like that?”
The stricken man started to his feet, and threw back his head as if his friend’s words had suddenly galvanised him into life and action.
“That man is not to be trusted for an hour. You know it, and yet you stand there leaving her in his hands. Even if it were possible that her father has condoned the past, he does not know what is familiar to us. But he has not. Boy, I tell you there is some mistake.”
“What shall I do?” said Stratton hoarsely.