“Tell me,” I said, firmly, “do you care for him still—is he, contemptible as he has shown himself, an object of interest to you?”
My masterful manner forced her to answer.
“In a measure, yes. I cannot help it—he came when I was heartbroken; he soothed me when I was wretched; he made himself indispensible; what could I do with no one to advise me?”
That was a slap at me, and I winced under it. Of course, no matter what a fool she had made of herself, I was to blame for it all—I, who had gone away in hot temper and left her so much money that she must be a bait to such an adventurer.
I cooled down—reproaches were useless, since the mischief had been done, and laments never mended a broken pitcher.
“Yes, I can easily understand how very assiduous he must have been; it was rare good picking for him, and what glorious revenge upon me. How he must have gloated over it! Surely he laughs best who laughs last—but the end is not yet.”
Again she looked at me steadily, as though my face could betray aught in the semi-darkness that rested under the awning.
“I don’t quite understand what you say about revenge and all that, Morgan. But you asked me to explain how I came to be away down in this warm climate, and held against my will in the house of the alcalde, and although I am a wretched story teller, I am trying to give you the facts.”
“Yes, it is all plain enough to me now—you could not put it clearer if you talked until dawn, or with the tongues of prophecy. I am glad it is all over, and that your troubles are ended. I hope he will never show up again to annoy you when I am at the other side of the world.”
“Are you—contemplating such a very extended cruise, then?”