She was Sir George Barclay's daughter! The girl he loved to distraction was the child of his father's murderer!
Astounded he stared at the note. He could not believe it. Yet it was there, written in Pansy's own hand.
"With my father, Sir George Barclay."
Pansy, the child of the man he hated! That brave, kind, slim, teasing girl, who for one brief week had filled him with a happiness and love and contentment such as he had once deemed impossible.
As he brooded on the note a variety of emotions raged within him.
A vengeance that had rankled for sixteen years fought with a love that had grown up in a week.
Then he pulled himself together, as if amazed at his own indecision.
He took the note, with its pathos and pleading; a girl's endeavour to meet the view of the man she loved, whose outlook was quite beyond her. Deliberately he tore it across and across, into shreds, slowly and with a cruel look on his face, as if it were something alive that he was torturing, and that gave him pleasure to torture.
For Le Breton had decided what his course was to be. The vengeance he had promised long years ago should be carried out, with slight alterations. He had a way now of torturing Sir George Barclay that would be punishment beyond any death. And Pansy was the tool he intended to use. What was more, she was to pay the penalty of her father's crime. For he would mete out to her the measure he had promised sixteen years ago.
However, this decision did not prevent Le Breton from going to Pansy's yacht the evening of its arrival in Grand Canary.