"What is there between you?" he asked. "What?"
"You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now in her eyes; just at the door she turned, held out her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she faltered, "though not the sinner you dream of." In all her bravery and paint she was very pitiful.
Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away.
She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something between the two women.
Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in.
"Monsieur," she said.
"Well?" He hated the woman who held the photograph and had shown it.
"Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was distraught, wild! There is some secret, Monsieur, between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes to the club, and notes by special messenger for Madame, though it is that they do not speak. And, Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? Before I left Madame, Madame was enceinte. I know, I could not be mistaken. The two Madames then disappear—alone. Has Monsieur never seen?"
"What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his hands on the maid's shoulder, unconsciously he shook her.
"How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame here," hissed Marie; "that when he was ill Madame sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, Monsieur."