The Major squared his shoulders resolutely.
“Look here, Violet: when we have to swallow a dose of bitter medicine, we don’t like it, but if we are told it will save our lives, we do it. Now, in this affair of Max Nugent, the sooner your medicine is swallowed the better. I am afraid the man is not sincere. What do you yourself think about it?”
Violet sighed deeply.
“I do not understand it,” she said, in rather a tremulous voice. “I have written to him several times, but have had no reply. You may as well know all. The last letter I had from him was quite two months ago, and in that he said he was coming to Europe immediately—to Paris first—and he promised to come on to London afterwards and see me.”
“And was that letter exactly what you expected it to be?” asked the Major, looking at her narrowly. “Was it all that you had a right to expect?”
Violet hesitated, then answered truthfully,—
“No. It was just the letter—of a friend.”
The Major rose.
“Come along now,” he said. “I will see into this for you. A millionaire like Nugent can’t hide his light under a bushel. I will find out where he is, and see him myself, if I have to cross the ocean to do it.”
Violet looked up at him with tearful eyes.