“Tell me everything, Blaise,” she said simply.
He took her outstretched hands and drew her slowly towards him. No one, reading now the calm sadness, the stern imprint of endurance on his face, could have imagined it was that of the same man who, a few moments earlier, had been swept by such a tempest of uncontrollable anger.
“Jean,” he said very gently and pitifully. “I’m afraid that what Madame de Varigny says may be true. I have no proof that it is not——”
“Nor have you any proof that it is,” broke in Jean swiftly. She swung round on Madame de Varigny. “Where is your proof—where is your proof?”
The Italian smiled.
“Monsieur Tor-ma-rin will find his wife in my car. I bade the chauffeur wait with it at the lodge gate.”
“Do you mean you have brought Nesta—here?” cried Blaise.
“Why not?” replied Madame do Varigny, with a return to the same exasperating complacency with which she had originally described her whole scheme of revenge. “And—here? Surely her husband’s house is the proper place to which to bring his wife?”
“She cannot remain here,” said Blaise with decision.
“No? For the moment that was not my idea. I brought her with me because I thought there could be no more convincing proof.”