“In prison? For persecuting her with his attentions?”
“No, for complicity in the attempt to murder Ogden Ward and the robbery of the jewels. I have just come from Ward himself. He is not injured seriously. The ribs deflected the blow. His greatest wish is to avoid all publicity—naturally.”
The sardonic note in his tone struck Maria.
“You surely do not place any reliance in what she said last night? She was excited and distraught. A child like that would mistake the fervor of love for an attack—”
She stopped short. Carlota stood in the doorway, slim and erect in a hasty toilette. She had overheard their voices and arisen. With the long refreshing sleep had come high resolve. The Marchese, looking at her arrayed in a long, clinging négligé of creamy lace, with its borders of rich fur, thought of the young Paoli in her first fire of love.
“Ah, cara mia,” exclaimed Maria eagerly, “you have rested. Kiss your old cross Maria, so. We dine with the Marchese to-night; you will like that, yes?”
Carlota shook her head, her eyes brilliant with resentment and determination.
“I will not go,” she said passionately. “You have treated me as if I were a spoiled child, locking me in my room. What is this about Ward accusing Griffeth, Marchese? He was not even here last night.”
“But where was he, then, my child? The night doorman tells another story. He was here after you had left.”
Carlota’s eyes closed and opened again widely, fearlessly.