"But it might be better if you were to see him alone. He has not met me since we came ashore."
"Well—you may be right. I'll take your advice. Don't leave me too long alone. I mope when you are away."
Yvonne slipped out. She passed Raymond on the stairs; but he gave her no heed, regarding her as belonging to the establishment.
The secretary was a small, slightly built man, and, contrary to the rule that renders undersized mortals rather aggressive in manner, carried himself with a shrinking air, as though he wished to avoid observation. He had an intelligent face; though its general expression was somewhat marred by a heavy chin and eyes set too closely together. He looked pale and ill; which was only natural, because his broken arm, the right one, had not been attended to by a doctor until nearly three hours after the accident. He was about thirty-five, but looked much older that morning, and Yvonne wondered if he had any forewarning of trouble, so compressed were his thin lips and so frowning his brows.
He found his late employer's wife standing at the window, gazing down into the little triangular Place, as Pont Aven calls its public square. Yvonne was passing in front of the four sycamores. She had, in fact, secured a mourning order for her friend, Le Sellin the tailor, and was going to his shop on some errand connected therewith. Her mother noted the girl's free and graceful walk, and approved the proud carriage of her head, on which the white coif sat like a coronet. She sighed, and did not turn until Yvonne had vanished. Then she faced the waiting secretary.
"Ah, that you?" she said carelessly. "Pardon me if I seemed rude, Mr. Raymond. My thoughts were wandering. My niece has just left me, and, as I have not seen her for many years until she and her father saved our lives the other evening, I was minded to watch her crossing the square."
"Your niece, did you say, Mrs. Carmac?"
Raymond's voice was pitched in the right key of hesitancy and interested surprise; but this worldly wise woman was far too skilled a student of human nature to miss the underlying note of skepticism.
"Usually I speak clearly," she said, with a touch of hauteur.