“Merely,” Herriard answered, “that you made love to her, and that she did not return the feeling. That should explain my refusal to yield my claim to yours.”
“It might,” Gastineau sneered, “to a shallow mind.” Manifestly, he was pricked disagreeably by Herriard’s pointed answer; his coolness was now maintained by an effort. “You might,” he continued, “by this have known me better than to suppose that I should allow myself to be defrauded of what I choose to set my heart upon. But we shall see. So the Countess told you she did not reciprocate my feeling. That was a somewhat gratuitous and easy statement to make about a dead man. Don’t you think so. By the way,” he gave Herriard no time to answer the question, fixing his piercing eyes upon him with the look that seemed to penetrate all prevarication, all evasion, to scorch up the mere fencing of the tongue, “I presume the Countess has no idea that I am alive?”
“None,” came the ready answer. “She certainly believes you to be dead.”
Obviously frank though the reply was, Gastineau demanded again, “You have not told her that I am alive?”
“No, I tell you.”
“Or even half alive?”
“No, no. I should be sorry to.”
“Would you?” he snapped suspiciously. “Why?”
The question was an awkward one, seeing that Herriard had no desire to irritate Gastineau unnecessarily. He gave a shrug. “It might cause her the embarrassment of an unpleasant arrière pensée.”
“Why embarrassment? Why unpleasant?” The sharp questions came with the insistence not merely of a keen cross-examiner, but of a jealous man.