He delivered himself of other platitudes, but Mrs. Baumgartner’s dejected air and Beryl’s sulky silence showed plainly enough that the millionaire’s fiat was unalterable. Polite murmurs of agreement veiled the chagrin of people who had a fortnight or more thrown on their hands without any prior arrangements. The meal was a solemn function. Everybody was glad when it ended.
Rosamund met Figuero in the hall.
“I am going to the village,” she said. “Will you walk there with me?”
He caught the veiled meaning of the glance, and agreed instantly. When they were clear of the house, she commenced the attack.
“Why are you and Count von Rippenbach and three men of Oku in England?” she asked.
She did not look at Figuero. There was no need. He waited a few seconds too long before he laughed.
“You make joke,” he said.
“Do I? It will be no joke for you when Captain Warden informs the Government, if he has not done that already.”
“Why you say dem t’ing?” he growled, and she was fully aware of the menace in his voice.
“You told me what you were pleased to consider a secret last night. Very well, I am willing to trade. Captain Warden knows what you are doing. He probably guesses every item of the business you and the Count were discussing so long and earnestly with Mr. Baumgartner in the library before lunch. Oh, please don’t interrupt”—for Figuero, driven beyond the bounds of self–control, was using words better left to the Portuguese tongue in which they were uttered—“I am not concerned with your plots. They never come to anything, you know. If either Count von Rippenbach or Mr. Baumgartner had your history at their finger’s ends as I have, they would drop you like a hot cinder. Yet, I am ready to bargain. Help me, and I will keep my information to myself.”