Yvonne was more and more bewildered. She realized intuitively now that he meant to discuss her mother's affairs, since Madeleine could not possibly have reached Paris yet, and any tidings he might have obtained with regard to Rupert Fosdyke's schemes hardly warranted such an alarming preamble. So she strove to make him comprehend that he was treading on dangerous ground.
"If you are referring, even indirectly, to Mrs. Carmac," she said frankly, "I must warn you instantly that I cannot listen to anything concerning her. Until she came to Pont Aven I was not even aware that such a relative as an aunt existed. When she leaves this place—though I shall see her often, I hope, in the future—the relations between us will be rather those of good friends than of aunt and niece. You ought to understand, then, Mr. Raymond, that if your confidences deal with her I refuse to hear them."
Raymond sighed heavily. He seemed to be at a loss for words. In reality Yvonne had said exactly what he anticipated, and he counted on a well judged delay as calculated to increase her agitation and weaken her defenses.
"Please don't render an ungracious task harder," he said, as though nerving himself to a supreme effort, when Yvonne, after walking a few paces in silence, was about to tell him that she would go no farther. "I meant to prepare you by some vague comments that would clear the air. But your highly strung and generous temperament will not permit any display of what I have described as my methods of caution. Well, then, if it must be so, let us get to the crux of the matter at once. Mrs. Carmac is not your aunt, Miss Yvonne. She is your mother! She was your father's lawful wife! She deserted him and you, got an American divorce, and was married to Walter Carmac in England. I believe that the second marriage was not a valid one. It is terrible to have to say these things; but they are true, and it rests with you to save her from exposure and ignominy. I beseech you to credit my good faith in this matter. To whom can I appeal if not to you, her daughter? It is manifestly impossible that I should go to your father. He could not help her if he would. Her future happiness, her very means of existence, are in your hands. Can you then reproach me if I ask you to bear with me while I endeavor to show a way out of a situation bristling with difficulties for all of us, alive with real danger for your own mother?"
In the first shock of this disclosure Yvonne was minded to rend the man with a few quiet words of scorn and disdain, and then leave him. Twice she essayed to break in on his measured utterances, and twice she held back. She could not know that Raymond had forged his thunderbolt with no slight skill. He could not hope to achieve the final effect he aimed at by merely revealing a secret that was no secret. Close observation had shown that the girl was well aware of the relationship she bore to Mrs. Carmac, and, although she might be a prey to terror and dismay at finding the knowledge in possession of a comparative stranger, she would hardly do other than resent his interference, resent it too with a good deal of spirit and hot indignation.
He contrived therefore to combine innuendo with fact. He had counted the cost. He was playing a desperate game. During the next five minutes he must have in Yvonne either a determined opponent or a subservient if unwilling ally. There could be no half measures. If his suit was spurned, he must attach himself forthwith to Rupert Fosdyke's fortunes. If Yvonne wavered, or was cowed, he would strike a telling blow through her mother. No matter how the issue tended, he was secure of a thumping reward.
Once again the hazard of the hour seemed to be with him. Yvonne, almost tongue-tied and wholly bewildered, could only falter brokenly, "Having said so much, you cannot stop now. What do you mean when you say that Mrs. Carmac is in danger?"
He almost chuckled. Things were going well, exceedingly well. She was ready to listen. But he managed to throw an emotional vibration into his voice. For the moment the man was a consummate actor; though indeed he had so much at stake that no extraordinary effort was called for.
"Thank you," he said, apparently groping in a fog of doubt, and forcing an unwilling parade of unpalatable and distressing facts. "It is something gained to feel that you have suspended judgment. You may or may not know already that Mrs. Carmac is your mother. I ask you to admit nothing: only to hear and weigh my statements dispassionately. Eighteen years ago your mother deserted you and your father in Paris. For some reason Mrs. Ingersoll married Carmac in her maiden name two years later. None of her associates ever guessed that the beautiful and distinguished Stella Fordyce had been the wife of an unknown artist. Her secret was safe with your father. It would have gone to the grave with her but for the wreck of the yacht on a Breton reef, and the really phenomenal chance that brought her first husband and her child to her rescue. Even then nothing might have been revealed had not Carmac lost his life. Really, if one were superstitious, one would see the action of Providence in——"