She glanced up at him with a pretense of dread such as a child might show; she was pleased to be alluringly gracious, but he could feel that she was more nervous than she had ever shown herself before––the strain was telling on her. Her beautiful eyes were not so slumbrous as usual; they were brilliant as from some inward fever, and, though she smiled and met his sombre gaze with a challenge, she smothered a sigh under her light words.
“I shan’t lecture you, Madame Caron; I have no right to interfere with what you call your––amusements,” and he glanced down at her, grimly; “but I leave in the morning because by remaining longer I might gain knowledge which, in honor, I should feel bound to report.”
“To Colonel––or, shall we say, General––McVeigh?”
He bent his head, and answered: “I have given you warning. He is my friend.”
“And I?” she asked, glancing at him with a certain archness. He looked down at her, but did not speak.
“And I?” she repeated.
“No,” he said, after a pause. “You, Madame, would have to be something more, or something less. The fates have decreed that it be less––so,” he made a little gesture dismissing the subject. “Pardon me, but I did not mean to attack you in that fashion. I came to look for you to ask you a question relating to the very pretty, very clever, maid you had in New Orleans, and whom, I hear, you brought with you on your visit here.”
“Oh! You are curious as to her––and you wish me to answer questions?”
“If you please, though it really does not matter to me. Are you aware that the woman was a runaway slave, and liable to recapture in this particular vicinity?”