“An evil one,—your abduction. Shall I tell you who penned that note, and who awaits you? The Marquis César de St. Auban.”
She shuddered as I pronounced the name, then, looking me straight between the eyes—“How come you to know these things?” she inquired.
“What does it signify, since I know them?”
“This, Monsieur, that unless I learn how, I can attach no credit to your preposterous story.”
“Not credit it!” I cried. “Let me assure you that I have spoken the truth; let me swear it. Go to the coppice at the appointed time, and things will fall out as I have predicted.”
“Again, Monsieur, how know you this?” she persisted, as women will.
“I may not tell you.”
We stood close together, and her clear grey eyes met mine, her lip curling in disdain.
“You may not tell me? You need not. I can guess.” And she tossed her shapely head and laughed. “Seek some likelier story, Monsieur. Had you not spoken of it, 't is likely I should have left the letter unheeded. But your disinterested warning has determined me to go to this rendezvous. Shall I tell you what I have guessed? That this conspiracy against my father, the details of which you would not have me learn, is some evil of your own devising. Ah! You change colour!” she cried, pointing to my face. Then with a laugh of disdain she left me before I had sufficiently recovered from my amazement to bid her stay.
“Ciel!” I cried, as I watched the tall, lissom figure vanish through the portals of the château. “Did ever God create so crass and obstinate a thing as woman?”