Houlot saw that I was in some flurry and confusion, and thought probably that I was afraid of him, and that by bullying me a little he should get what he wanted.
‘Come now!’ he cried; ‘go and get me that money. I know what I know, and I am not to be stopped for a paltry five-pound note.’
My reply was to shew him the door. He scowled at me, fingered his stick as if he had a mind to hit me, thought better of it seemingly, and went out growling inarticulately.
‘Where is he, that man?’ cried Mrs Collingwood meeting me in the doorway of the house, looking quite livid with fear. ‘What do you know of him? Where does he come from?’
‘He is your correspondent, the author of your plots.’
‘Ah, then is he my husband!’ she cried in a voice that, though low and subdued, was full of anguish. ‘What a wretched being am I, to have seen him!’
‘It would have been worse still had he seen you,’ I muttered. ‘Come, Mrs Collingwood—come into the garden, into the open air; you will be better there. Take my arm; keep up your heart; all will be well yet.’
‘Where is he? where is he?’ was all she could say.
‘He is gone; you are quite safe.’