"Is that you, Esmé? Quick! I've no time. The boy is doing well. What? Not Mrs Carteret? Oh, call her—at once."
No necessity to call the woman who came flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esmé listened for a moment, then came back to her tea slowly.
It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it.
"There is something then amiss with the little Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said softly.
"He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esmé burst out, then checked herself.
"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bébé should not have a little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...."
Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing to her tell-tale cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped her cup and cried out.
"When I left Madame," murmured Marie to herself, "and Madame is now so attached to the little boy Blakeney. I wonder, oh, I wonder!" muttered the Frenchwoman.
Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm were crushed, might never be used freely again; but there were no fatal injuries.
Deep in her heart, after the first remorse for the angry push which she had given the child, Denise had hoped that he might die. Once dead there would be no more danger of detection. Esmé would give up worrying her.