She had crossed them over her forehead—those long delicate white hands—and kept them thus for a long time. At last, loosening her fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish:
“And do you intend to tell all that to my father?”
“Yes; and I will tell him that I have secured as witnesses: Mademoiselle Gerbois, who will recognize the blonde Lady; Sister Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de Crozon, who will recognize Madame de Réal. That is what I shall tell him.”
“You will not dare,” she said, recovering her self-possession in the face of an immediate peril.
He arose, and made a step toward the library. Clotilde stopped him:
“One moment, monsieur.”
She paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself, said:
“You are Herlock Sholmes?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want of me?”