She turned, making no pretence to hide her tears. "I beg of you—take me to Mr. Boyce."
"I said, madame, Mr. Boyce is not yet dead." The sharp, precise voice spared her nothing. "I do not know whether he will live." Alison gave a choking cry. "I do not now know whether he would desire to live."
"What do you mean?" A madness of fear, of love perhaps, distorted her face.
"You well know. When I rode out this morning, I had it in mind to kill the Waverton and conduct you to Mr. Boyce. But I did not guess that Waverton would refuse to be killed like a gentleman or that I should find you engaged in the rogue's infamy."
"But that is his lie! Ah, you must know that it is a lie. You heard how he turned on me, and his vileness."
"Bien, you have played fast and loose with him. I allow that. It does not commend you to me, madame."
"I'll not bear it," Alison cried wildly. "Oh, sir, you have no right. Mr.
Boyce would never endure you should treat me so."
"Dieu de dieu! Would you trade upon Harry's gentleness now? Aye, madame, he would not treat you so, mordieu. He would see nothing, know nothing, believe nothing. And let you make a mock of him again. But if you please, I stand between him and you."
"You have no right," Alison muttered.
"It is you who have put me there. You, madame, when you played him false with this Waverton."