It was late. Near twelve o’clock. The lamps in the mews flickered as Ann returned to her rooms. The post had brought a note from René, posted in the north of London. He said: “Please tell old Martin I shall be away three days. I will come back then. I think I have it all settled in my mind. I want to get it clear for you, too. You have been so good to me, my dear, and I owe you so much.—R.”
There was also a letter for him. She struggled against the desire to open it, and conquered it for that night. The next morning, however, the temptation was too strong for her, and she steamed it open. It was from a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh to say that the late Miss Janet Fourmy had left René the residue of her estate, which, after certain small legacies had been paid, would amount to nearly four thousand pounds. The house in Scotland would also be his, and all the deceased lady’s personal effects.
Ann went to her work that day shivering with excitement. René’s enormous wealth frightened her. She could put up a fight against his intelligence, his brooding, his silence; but against this she felt powerless, and knew within her heart that her battle was already lost.
She was a forewoman now, and she gave the girls under her the worst day they ever remembered.
[BOOK THREE
CATHLEEN BENTLEY]
So between them love did shine
That the truth saw his right
Flaming in the phœnix’ sight,