Tarboe had called in her absence. Entering the garden, he saw Denzil at work. At the click of the gate Denzil turned, and came forward.
“She ain’t home,” he said bluntly. “She’s out. She ain’t here. She’s up at Mr. Grier’s house, bien sur.”
To Tarboe Denzil’s words were offensive. It was none of Denzil’s business whether he came or went in this house, or what his relations with Junia were. Democrat though he was, he did not let democracy transgress his personal associations. He knew that the Frenchman was less likely to say and do the crude thing than the Britisher.
Tarboe knew of the position held by Denzil in the Shale household; and that long years of service had given him authority. All this, however, could not atone for the insolence of Denzil’s words, but he had controlled men too long to act rashly.
“When will Mademoiselle be back?” he asked, putting a hand on himself.
“To-night,” answered Denzil, with an antipathetic eye.
“Don’t be a damn fool. Tell me the hour when you think she will be at home. Before dinner—within the next sixty minutes?”
“Ma’m’selle is under no orders. She didn’t say when she would be back—but no!”
“Do you think she’ll be back for dinner?” asked Tarboe, smothering his anger, but get to get his own way.
“I think she’ll be back for dinner!” and he drove the spade into the ground.