Mrs. Petullo was not, in truth, wholly unmoved, but it was the actress in her wrung her hands.
“I hear you are going abroad,” she cried. “That must be the hardest thing of all.”
“I am not complaining, ma'am,” said Doom.
“No, no; but oh! it is so sad, Baron—and your dear girl too, so sweet and nice—”
The Baron grew impatient; the “something of importance” was rather long of finding an expression, and he took the liberty of interrupting.
“Quite so, ma'am,” said he, “but there was something in particular you had to tell me. Mungo, as I mentioned, is waiting me at the quay, and time presses, for we have much to do before we leave next week.”
A look of relief came to Mrs. Petullo's face.
“Next week!” she cried. “Oh, then, that goes far to set my mind at ease.” Some colour came to her cheeks; she trifled with a handkerchief. “What I wished to say, Baron, was that your daughter and—and—and the French gentleman, with whom we are glad to hear she is like to make a match of it, could not be away from this part of the country a day too soon. I overheard a curious thing the other day, it is only fair I should tell you, for it concerns your friend the French gentleman, and it was that Simon MacTaggart knew the Frenchman was back in your house and threatened trouble. There may be nothing in it, but I would not put it past the same person, who is capable of any wickedness.”
“It is not the general belief, ma'am,” said the Baron, “but I'll take your word for it, and, indeed, I have long had my own suspicions. Still, I think the same gentleman has had his wings so recently clipped that we need not be much put about at his threats.”
“I have it on the best authority that he broods mischief,” said she.