Penelope was quite silent, not replying by a single word to Mademoiselle’s insinuations until they reached the gates of Castle Beverley. Then she said in a quiet voice:
“You have told me something most terrible, and of course—I will do—I will do something—”
“But you will not expose that pauvre sister—you will not ruin her for all her life; and she so young and so fair.”
“Please, Mademoiselle, promise me something,” said Penelope. “You have told me the story, and I am obliged to you. I will let you know what I myself mean to do to-morrow morning.”
“But that will be far too late, mon enfant; for remember, I have found the missing bangle, and for this so great discovery there is a reward offered, and that reward, although très petite, is nevertheless of consequence to one so poor as myself. I will claim that reward; but I want to claim more. If I keep this thing dark—quite dark, I claim a big reward.”
“What?” asked Penelope.
Her whole tone changed. The coachman, by her directions, had drawn up at the avenue gates. Penelope and Mademoiselle had both alighted.
“Drive on,” said Penelope to the man. “Say that I am following.”
He obeyed. When the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died away, Penelope turned again to Mademoiselle.
“You have told me the story,” she said; “and now I want to know exactly what you do expect. You have, of course, told me the story not out of any kindness to me or to my sister. Please don’t waste your breath denying this fact, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. You have told it, hoping to profit by it.”