As soon as she paused he arose.
“Can you tell me where to find Mr. de Vere?” he asked.
“I can not,” she answered, stiffly, although she knew perfectly well through her spy, Finette, where he was. But she saw, with bitter mortification, that Lord Stuart’s sympathies were not with her, but had gone out silently to the noble man of whose life she had made such a foot-ball of fate. “You take his part against me!” she said, with flashing eyes and her most regal air.
He was going to the door; but he turned back, very pale and moved, and gazed steadfastly into her excited face.
“I take your part against yourself,” he answered, gravely. “I would save you from the fate you are bringing down upon yourself, because—well, because I loved you once, although I am ashamed of it now. But, Camille, if you stay on here at Verelands, this horrible vengeance of which you boast is going to recoil in terrible disaster on your own head. Be warned in time. Tell the truth, and crave Norman de Vere’s pardon for your wickedness. If you will not do that, go away far from here and hide yourself as far as possible from the storm of disgrace that is going to break on your head.”
A tremor ran over her at the earnestness with which he spoke, but she laughed aloud with the recklessness of a desperate woman.
“I shall never leave Verelands again, and I defy the disasters you predict, Lord Stuart,” she replied, daringly.
He did not reply. He simply bowed and hastened from her presence, drawing a breath of relief at his escape.
“Oh, brother, how strange you look! What is it?” Lady Edith cried, starting up anxiously to meet him.
“It is nothing,” he said, drawing his arm about the trembling figure. “I told you,” he added, “that there was some mistake. Mr. de Vere and his wife are both away from home, Edith.”