"Then," said she, "you must just go without understanding. For I shall never, never explain."
The bright flush went from her face and she turned grave once more.
"What is to be done?" she asked. "What must we do now, Ste. Marie?—I mean about Arthur Benham. I suppose he must be told."
"Either he must be told," said the man, "or he must be taken back to his home by force." He told her about the four letters which in four days he had thrown over the wall into the Clamart road.
"It was on the chance," he said, "that some one would pick one of them up and post it, thinking it had been dropped there by accident. What has become of them I don't know. I know only that they never reached Hartley."
The girl nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," said she, "that was the best thing you could have done. It ought to have succeeded. Of course——" She paused a moment and then nodded again. "Of course," said she, "I can manage to get a letter in the post now. We'll send it to-day if you like. But I was wondering—Would it be better or not to tell Arthur the truth? It all depends upon how he may take it—whether or not he will believe you. He's very stubborn, and he's frightened about this break with his family, and he is quite sure that he has been badly treated. Will he believe you? Of course if he does believe he could escape from here quite easily at any time and there'd be no necessity for a rescue. What do you think?"
"I think he ought to be told," said Ste. Marie. "If we try to carry him away by force there'll be a fight, of course, and—who knows what might happen? That we must leave for a last resort—a last desperate resort. First we must tell the boy."
Abruptly he gave a cry of dismay, and the girl looked up to him, staring.
"But—but you, Coira!" said he, stammering. "But you! I hadn't realised—I hadn't thought—it never occurred to me what this means to you." The full enormity of the thing came upon him slowly. He was asking this girl to help him in robbing her of her lover.