“As a what?” questioned Peggy, puzzled.
“As a mink,” complaisantly. “I am ver happy to-day, Mademoiselle; for Madame, your grande mère, has given me permission to tell you how much I lof you.”
Peggy’s heart beat fast, and she crumpled her handkerchief into a little ball. De Morny stopped to glare at Hurley, as that solemn individual came in with the tea tray.
“Will you not gif me some hope,” he pleaded, as soon as Hurley went out of the room. “Mon cœur, I adore you; I cannot lif without you.”
The excited Frenchman bent forward, caught Peggy’s little hand, and impulsively kissed it before she could snatch it away.
“Monsieur, monsieur, you go too fast,” she remonstrated. “You forget that at the Charity Ball I said I would listen to you and,” hesitating, “my other friends, only on one condition.”
“And that condition, Mademoiselle?”
“Is that you find the murderer of Mrs. Trevor.”
The pupils of de Morny’s eyes contracted suddenly. An involuntary shiver ran down Peggy’s spine as they met hers.
“And zen—what, Mademoiselle?” he asked, slowly.