“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” he said. “That you might bring them back. Fortunately, I’m leaving Montricheux to-morrow.”
Ann was silent. She was vibrantly conscious of the man’s strange, forceful personality. His brusque, hard speeches fell on her like so many blows, and yet behind them she felt as though there were something that appealed—something hurt and seeking to hide its hurt behind an armour of savage irony.
His voice, coolly indifferent once more, broke across her thoughts.
“Would you like to go back now?”
He spoke as though he were suddenly anxious to be rid of her as quickly as possible, and she assented hastily. His abrupt changes of mood disconcerted her. There seemed no accounting for what he might say next. He tossed a curt order to a man whom she could discern crouching forward near the engine.
“Bien, m’sieu,” came the answer, and presently the motor-boat was dexterously edging her way through the throng till she emerged into a clear space and purred briskly towards the shore.
Once more the Englishman’s hand closed firmly round Ann’s as he helped her out on to the little landing-stage.
“Good-bye,” she said, a trifle nervously. “And thank you so much for coming to my rescue.”
Still retaining her hand in his, he stared down at her with those queerly compelling eyes of his. She felt her breath coming and going unevenly. For a moment he hesitated, as though deliberating some point within himself. Then:
“Good-bye,” he said. And his voice was utterly expressionless. It held not even cordiality.