"Oh, we both loved it!" she said. "We had some unique and strange experiences, things we shall never forget. But I had to come back, my time was up. I am leaving for England on the twenty-eighth—I have so much to pack and collect."
"It is getting very warm," Margaret said. "The tourists are all going back."
"Oh, I never mind the heat—I like it—but unfortunately I have to go home—money matters. I've been rather lucky, in a manner—a rich relation in Australia died a few months ago and I have just heard that he has left me a nice little bit."
Millicent's words instantly confirmed Margaret's suspicions. The unscrupulous woman had secured at least a part of the buried gold. Margaret wondered if it would be wise to attack her on the subject. She refrained; instinct cautioned her. With Margaret it was always a case of—When in doubt, hold your tongue.
"What a fortunate coincidence!" she said coldly. "How very odd!"
Millicent looked at her sharply. What did her words mean? What was she driving at? Margaret never spoke unthinkingly.
"I don't understand what coincidence you refer to, but certainly I've been lucky as regards legacies and money. I've always been fortunate about money, but there is a saying that money goes where money is, and that if you get one legacy you will get three. I really could have done without the last windfall. I have enough of this world's goods for a lone woman—if I had some babies it would be different."
There was a note of sadness in Millicent's words which would have appealed to Margaret if she had not known what a perfect actress the woman was. How was she to believe anything she said after what she had done?
"You needn't let it be a burden to you." Margaret pretended to laugh. "There are other people's babies who have none. There are plenty of ways of disposing of super-wealth. Why not pay for the costs of some of the Egyptian exploration work next autumn? It would interest you and . . ." Margaret paused. ". . . it would be a suitable way of spending the gold. It would repay Mr. Amory."
In saying these words, Margaret felt that she was going as near to the point as she dared. As she said them, Millicent's eyes hardened. She had spoken with sincerity when she said that she could have done without her uncle's fortune, for there were moments when she deceived herself into believing that if her grand passion for Michael had been returned, that if she had ever been loved as greatly as she felt that she herself could love, or if she had had any children, she would have been a good and noble woman. No chance of goodness had ever come her way, and she had never stepped aside to look for it.