“Yes, the girl we saw on the Boulevard upon the night——”
The young man stopped abruptly, and gave another of those fretful sighs by which he made a kind of sulky atonement for the errors of his life.
“I do not remember the daughter of George Vane,” murmured the Frenchman, reflectively. “I know that there was a young girl with that wearisome old Englishman—a handsome young person, with bright yellow hair and big eyes; an overgrown child, who was not easily to be shaken off; but I remember no more. Nevertheless, I think I have seen this Mrs. Monckton before to-day.”
“Because, I tell you, Eleanor Monckton is like that girl. I saw the likeness when I first came home, though I only caught one glimpse of the face of George Vane’s daughter on the Boulevard that night. And, if I had not had reason for thinking otherwise, I should have been almost inclined to believe that the old schemer’s daughter had come to Hazlewood to plot against my interests.”
“I do not understand.”
“You remember George Vane’s talk about his friend’s promise, and the fortune that he was to inherit?”
“Yes, perfectly. We used to laugh at the poor hopeful old man.”
“You used to wonder why I took such an interest in the poor old fellow’s talk. Heaven knows I never wished him ill, much less meant him any harm——”
“Except so far as getting hold of his money,” murmured Monsieur Bourdon, in an undertone.
The young man turned impatiently upon his companion.