“Violet,” he said, softly but clearly, “Violet, don’t go! Come here. It is I, David.” The cheek of him! as Miss Ermyn L’Estrange would have put it. Violet! David! What next?
Violet was bewitched for a second or two. She looked wildly toward the house, and at him; for he stood so that she might see him plainly, though to her mother he was invisible.
“Please come!” he pleaded. “I am here for your sake, for Gwen’s sake, too, and they have kept us apart so long by lies!”
That the girl was greatly excited was obvious. She pressed her hands together on her bosom, though the action might pass as a simple adjustment of her shawl.
“I must go,” she murmured brokenly. “They want me there to—to sign some documents. And I cannot meet you.”
“Violet, sign nothing until you have heard my story. I appeal to you for a hearing. If you refuse I shall come with you to the house. But hear me first. Make some excuse.”
There was ever that in David’s voice which won belief. Some men ring true, some false. David had in him the clear sound of metal without flaw.
And no woman is worth her salt who cannot act more than a little. “Give me ten minutes, mother,” shrilled Violet, excitedly. “Only ten minutes; then I shall be with you.”
David, peeping through the rustic timber-work, noted with satisfaction that Mrs. Mordaunt waved a hand of agreement and reëntered the house. What then, of devil’s work was Van Hupfeldt plotting in that drawing-room that Violet should be wanted to sign documents, and that the girl’s mother should recognize the need of her daughter being allowed some few minutes of grace if she so desired?